


Pyriscence

by idoltina



Series: Nightminds [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-05-01 20:06:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 158,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5219093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idoltina/pseuds/idoltina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon being awoken from Maleficent’s sleeping curse, Regina finds herself struggling to navigate the Netherworld. Trapped in the Hall of Mirrors and haunted by the reflections of her regrets, Regina’s psychological well-being suffers until she seeks out assistance from some unlikely sources.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. October 1, 2013 - October 2, 2013

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** adult language, allusions to dub-con, anxiety attacks, assault, attempted murder, blood, bondage/restraints, discussion of murder, discussion of previous miscarriages, discussion of previous suicide attempts, **graphic depictions of a dead body** , injuries, mentions of therapy, psychological torture, references to potential previous alcoholism, references to potential previous domestic violence, references to previous canonical and non-canonical character death, references to previous canonical torture techniques and experiences, temporary inability to control magical abilities, self-injury, vomiting
> 
>  **Author’s Notes:** Originally derived from [this sp0iler](http://insidetv.ew.com/2014/09/26/spoiler-room-agents-shield-greys-anatomy-spoilers/) and a need to see Regina’s journey/encounters with the sleeping curse come full circle, this piece does not take canon events beyond 04.10 **except for selected parts** of 04.11, and any information about 4B into account beyond this original article.
> 
>  
> 
> [Art by: bynightafangirl](http://idoltina.tumblr.com/post/139319135764/bynightafangirl-upon-being-awoken-from)  
> [Art by: rcgalbeliever](http://idoltina.tumblr.com/post/149379917020/rcgalbeliever-fanfic-appreciation-1)

* * * * *

**Storybrooke -- Fall 2013**

* * * * *

Freedom, it turns out, is very much like magic -- it comes with a price.

For Regina, it’s guilt.

The magic in her simmers to silence as the summer sun sets, but guilt casts shadows well into the fall. Gold’s gaze pierces through the shadows, hateful and disappointed and reflecting her own self-loathing back at her. It follows her as she carries her guilt with her into the library, tucked away in a box in her purse -- out of sight, but not out of mind.

Belle glances up from her station at the circulation desk as Regina closes the library door behind her, all warmth and ease and smiles. “Regina,” she greets, leaning across the counter and resting her weight on her arms. “It’s been a while. I see more of Robin than I do of you. He’s in here with Roland at least twice a week checking out books.”

Regina returns Belle’s smile with ease and crosses the lobby to meet her at the circulation desk. “I don’t think he had much opportunity to read a lot before coming to Storybrooke,” she explains. “They’ve enrolled him at the school, but the staff isn’t really sure about his placement levels yet. Things went from testing reading abilities to requesting two books at bedtime fairly quickly,” she laughs.

“I’m glad,” Belle enthuses. She hesitates for a moment and bites her lip before she ventures, “Robin did mention that they were moving in with you and Henry. Well, Robin is, anyway. I guess the boys split their time with you and their other mothers?”

Regina’s smile tightens a little around the edges but doesn’t lose its warmth. “Yes,” she affirms around an exhale. “We’re alternating with Emma and Marian a week at a time. Robin and I wanted to have both boys with us at the same time to give them more time together.” It’s her turn to hesitate, here, her gaze falling to the surface of the desk. “After everything that happened this past summer, we decided we wanted to keep each other close by.”

“Yeah, I imagine you would,” Belle says, soft and warm and full of understanding. Regina lifts her gaze to meet Belle’s eyes, and then the moment is gone. Belle clears her throat and straightens up a little, turning her attention back to the stacks of books in front of her. “Is that, um -- is that why you’re here?” she asks, settling back into organizing. “Did they send you to return some of the books he borrowed or to get new ones?”

“Uh, no,” Regina says with the barest hint of a laugh. “No, I figure the library visits should be between Roland and his parents. I still have some of Henry’s old books somewhere in the house I can supply him with once he’s exhausted your supply.”

Belle shuffles a few books from one stack to another before clearing the space in front of her and turning her attention back to Regina. “What can I help you with, then?”

Regina inhales sharply, smile faltering as her fingers flex anxiously atop the counter. She hesitates for a long moment before reaching into her purse and unearthing the long, thin box she’d stashed there earlier today. She’s even more hesitant to set it on the counter between them, the memory of Belle visiting her at the beginning of the summer too fresh in her mind. Guilt leaves an ache in Regina’s heart and a bad taste in her mouth, and this is the only course of action she has the option of taking.

So she swallows down and around her ache and does the only thing she can -- she _tries_. “I was wondering,” she begins, doing her best to keep her voice level and even as she sets the box on the counter between them, “if you might consider taking this back.” Belle’s brow wrinkles in confusion as she reaches for the box, fingers working nimbly to pry it open. There’s no mistaking the unease in Belle’s expression once she sees what’s inside, her sharp inhale piercing in the silence. “I know it’s a lot to ask --”

“Yes,” Belle says thickly, unable to keep her voice from trembling a little. “Yes, it is.”

Regina’s eyes fall to where Belle’s hands are shaking around the edges of the box holding the dagger, but she forces herself to look back up and keep going. “You know what he did to me,” she says, lowering her voice a little. “You know what he did to try and get that back.”

Belle looks back up at her at that, eyes wet and weighted and worried. “Yes,” she breathes, “I do. Regina, I understand probably better than anyone what it’s like to suffer as a result of his quest to get this back.”

“But?” Regina prompts, sensing where this is going but forcing herself to see this through.

Belle glances back down at the dagger in the box briefly, fingers flexing anxiously before she pulls her hands away. “But this, Regina?” she says, imploring and earnest as she lifts her gaze again. “This is so much bigger than just you, or -- or me. We’re not the only people he hurt.”

And _that_ , Regina knows, because she remembers the ache in Aurora’s eyes and the body of a dragon, remembers a house full of worry and pain in Robin’s voice and all of Henry’s anger. “I know,” she says darkly, and there is anger, there, but fire does not spark in her veins.

There’s apology apparent in Belle’s eyes, at that, the tone of her voice taking on a different quality. “This isn’t just about the people we care about, either,” Belle adds, a little gentler. “This is about the greater good. Rumple -- he trapped all of those people in the Sorcerer’s hat. He was going to leave everyone in this town to tear each other apart during Ingrid’s spell. He nearly killed Killian. He _murdered_ Phillip so he could set Maleficent loose on the town, and she nearly _burned it to the ground_. And that’s not including everything she did after. Rumple didn’t care what happened to anyone else during all of that as long as he had _this_ ,” she says, gesturing toward the dagger but still not touching it.

And Regina remembers -- she remembers watching Shattered Sight looming on the horizon, remembers the fear she’d carried with her then, the fear she still (always) carries with her now. She remembers the clock tower and a sky lit with stars and trust and not a villain, not any more. She remembers fire and ash and skin that had been burned, remembers light in her soul and healing in her hands and a fire dimming in her veins. She remembers shattered glass in the middle of a crowded room and every eye on her and a promise to _fight_ for something bigger than just herself.

“Regina,” Belle says, “after all of this, of the two of us, you are the only one who has managed to hold onto the real thing without losing it.”

This is Regina’s kingdom, and she has to protect it.

Her hands are hesitant as she reaches for the box across the counter, slow and deliberate in her movements as she turns the open box toward her, dagger gleaming under fluorescent lights. There is history etched into every letter, dark and jagged and present even without having been in Gold’s possession. There is Pan and Neal, sacrifice stained on each edge. There is Cora and Zelena, manipulation marked by filthy fingerprints. There is Regina, light and dark and bonds broken. And there is Belle, betrayed and bound and --

 _Oh_.

Regina’s fingers ghost over the letters spelling out the Dark One’s name. She remembers the lengths she’d gone to back in the Enchanted Forest, the efforts she’d made to try and rid him of his power. She remembers using Belle like a pawn -- like a puppet the same way Rumple had done to her, although not nearly to the same extremes. Regina remembers darkness of her own -- manipulation and lies and kidnapping and imprisonment.

She’d kept Belle locked up for nearly thirty years.

Guilt creeps in around the edges again.

Regina’s fingers dance along the edges of the box, deliberating.

“I refuse to put myself in a position to let him manipulate me again, Regina,” Belle says, calm and even and _firm_ , and Regina almost smiles.

Almost.

Belle won’t take the dagger back, and Regina cannot give it to her.

This is the price of Belle’s freedom.

This is Regina’s burden to bear.

Darkness speaks to her, and Regina snaps the lid of the box shut to silence it. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to remember how to breathe, tries to focus on light and love and a heart still beating. “I don’t have my magic to protect me right now,” she says, fingers cold and trembling against the surface of the box.

“You went without it for twenty-eight years,” Belle reminds her.

Regina inhales sharply and opens her eyes, focusing on her hands and willing them to stop shaking. “That was different,” she argues.

“How?” Belle prompts.

Regina’s brow knits in concentration as her fingers drift in lazy patterns across the ornate design decorating the box. “I couldn’t… _feel_ magic, mostly, during the curse. I couldn’t access it. It was almost like it wasn’t there.”

“And this isn’t like that,” Belle surmises.

“No,” Regina says quietly, fingers stilling their movement. “This is like --” And she pauses, here, because she’s not sure exactly what she’d liken it to. It’s not like it had been before she’d met Rumplestiltskin, when she was young and full of untapped potential. It’s not like any of her training, when she’d struggled to access it because she didn’t know how to call it forth or use it. It’s not like the times her magic has been taken from her -- from Rumplestiltskin as payment in a deal, from Blue in service of the Charmings. It’s not like wearing that infernal cuff on her wrist, when all of her magic had festered inside of her. No, if anything, this feels like something inside of her has almost died. There had only been a few instances in which her magic had felt that lost to her -- all of them the same. It’s the pit in her stomach and the feeling of being powerless and inability to bear the burden Leopold had tried to impose upon her. Her magic had bled out with each heir lost, and she remembers Rumple’s frustration at how long it’d taken her magic to recover. “It’s like a broken bone,” she explains, smile wry and eyes a little damp as she forces herself to look back up at Belle. “It needs to mend.”

Belle’s eyes narrow a little in study, clearly sensing that there’s more Regina’s not saying. “But you think you’ll get it back?”

Regina takes a breath to steady herself, and there is hope in her lungs. “I _think_ so,” she says, relaxing a little. “I mean, I really have no way of knowing since I’ve never broken a bond like that before, but it feels… familiar. My brain and body still know what to do. It’ll be like riding a bike.”

Belle nods in understanding, eyes falling to the box between them again. She’s quiet for a long moment before she ventures, “And, um, what about -- what about Rumple? Do you think it’ll be the same for him?”

Regina drops her own gaze, now, nails toying with the latch on the box. “I would imagine so,” she says, trying very hard not to sound bitter. “Given the magnitude of his power, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was able to start using magic again before me.”

Belle’s hand comes to rest over Regina’s, stilling her movement, and still Regina cannot look her in the eyes. “You may not have your magic right now, Regina,” Belle murmurs, “but neither does Rumple. As long as you have this, as long as you have the dagger -- as long as that’s _real_? Then you have the power to prevent him from hurting you or anyone else again.”

Regina swallows around her guilt. “You trusted me not to use it against him,” she says, and her voice is raw and tired and broken open. “I’ve already failed at that.”

Belle’s hand squeezes hers reassuringly. “Think of it as a public service.”

Regina can’t help but bark out a dry laugh. “For the greater good,” she drawls. “I didn’t realize I could do that and be selfish at the same time.”

“Regina,” Belle says, and Regina is both light and dark in every inch of her skin. “I trust you.” Belle’s fingers nimbly shift the latch, locking it into place. “I think it’s time you do the same.”

_It’s not you I don’t trust._

Villains take the easy way out, and that’s not who Regina is any more.

Heroes do what’s right, not what’s easy.

With Gold’s eyes in the shadows and hope in her lungs, Regina curls her fingers around darkness and chooses the harder path.

When she looks up to meet Belle’s eyes again, the guilt starts to fade back into the shadows.

* * * * *

_Regina can’t see her reflection in any of the mirrors._

_Perplexed, she moves toward one of the mirrors, surveying it curiously before reaching out a hand to examine it more closely. Her fingertips are just shy of grazing glass when --_

_“Careful, dearie! Wouldn’t want to end up like your mother, now, would you?”_

_She starts a little, hand dropping away from the mirror, but she doesn’t move away. Reluctantly, she turns her head in the direction of the voice and finds Rumplestiltskin harboring one of the mirrors in all of his Enchanted Forest glory. She can’t say she’s missed this version of him, every bit the crocodile Hook refers to him as, but it doesn’t really matter. “I can’t say I’m afraid of being pushed in,” Regina says dryly, “seeing as how you’re the only other one in here and you’re trapped in there.”_

_Rumplestiltskin steeples his fingertips together and smiles. “That’s not what I meant, dearie.”_

_Regina’s blood goes cold, and she takes a step away from the mirror. “You’re not really here,” she says, convincing herself as much as him. “I’m not afraid of you.”_

_“Well of course you’re not,” he snaps. “You’ve got my dagger.”_

_Regina relaxes a little and turns to face his mirror more fully. “It’s better off in my hands than yours.”_

_Rumplestiltskin hums around an amused sound of derision. “And yet you are so… tempted.”_

_Regina’s eyes narrow. “I will never go back to what I was.”_

_And he laughs -- Rumplestiltskin actually laughs, high-pitched and lilting and sounding far too pleased. “You are so certain of that,” he says. “And yet look at you, Regina. Can’t see yourself in the dark, can you?”_

_She can’t help but avert her gaze to the mirror next to her, heart stuttering painfully when she still doesn’t see herself looking back. “No,” she agrees, quiet and calm. “I never could.” She glances back toward one of the torches and finds herself able to breathe a little easier. “I guess that’s why I started to stray back toward the light,” she muses, taking another step back._

_Rumplestiltskin’s smile disappears. “You possess my dagger out of guilt,” he reminds her, voice sharp and clear and ringing in the hall of mirrors. “You can convince yourself that it’s for the greater good, Regina, but you and I both know that as long as you hold onto that guilt, you will always be tempted by darkness.” Regina closes her eyes and wills him to go away, but she’s startled into a gasp when his voice echoes behind her, loud and close and in the mirror at her back. She whirls around on the spot and shrinks away, feeling every bit eighteen again and hating every second. “So long as you are tempted, Regina, it doesn’t matter which one of us has the dagger. I am still the one in control.”_

_Heart hammering and blood burning, Regina inhales sharply and straightens up, squaring her shoulders. “No,” she refutes coldly. “You’re not. I’m not your puppet anymore. I broke that bond. And that is why I’m out here and you’re trapped in there.”_

_Rumplestiltskin’s grin glitters, and Regina forgets how to breathe._

_He takes a step out of the mirror._

_Instinctively, Regina throws her hands up between them to try and protect herself and gain some distance from him. They’re both startled when magic erupts from her hands, projecting a shield in the space between them. He hesitates, now, both feet planted just outside of the mirror he’d been recently occupying. Regina struggles to catch her breath but doesn’t dare lower her hands, not now, not when she’s keeping him at bay._

_He’s not smiling any more._

_Confused and clearly curious, Rumplestiltskin reaches out a tentative hand much like Regina had done with the mirrors earlier. The entire barrier between them sparks to life with electricity once his fingertips make contact with it, and he snatches his hand away as though he’s been burned. When he meets her eyes, she recognizes the look on his face._

_Fear._

_One calming breath, and then another._

_Regina doesn’t have her magic right now._

_This isn’t real._

_She’s… dreaming._

_Mother’s words echo loudly in the space around them -- power is freedom -- and Regina knows what she has to do._

* * * * *

She wakes up.

There is breath in her lungs and a quiet calm in her veins as Regina opens her eyes to near-darkness.

It was just a dream.

Blearily, she blinks over in the direction of her nightstand, hands fumbling blindly in the dark before she manages to find her phone. Squinting, she uses the phone to shine light at her alarm clock, exhaling sharply when she realizes that it’s four in the morning. She abandons the phone on the nightstand and curls away from the light toward the center of the bed to get more comfortable and try and fall back asleep. Her nose wrinkles a little with her smile at the sight of Robin sleeping soundly beside her, blankets slung low on his hips. She does her best not to wake him as she shifts closer and curls against his side, head finding the crook of his arm with ease. With a satisfied sigh, she closes her eyes and dances her fingertips across the hollow of his throat so she can rest her hand on his far shoulder, and --

Robin wakes with a too-loud gasp, bolting up into a sitting position so quickly that he dislodges Regina from where she’d been curled around him a few seconds ago. Regina falls back onto her side of the mattress with a disgruntled _oomph_ , and it takes her a few seconds to regain her bearings. She manages to prop herself up on an elbow, her brow wrinkled in annoyance and confusion as her eyes try to adjust to the lack of light again. “Robin, what --”

But she stops, bites her tongue for a minute as she surveys the state he’s in. He’s still breathing fairly hard and he doesn’t even seem aware of her presence and he’s _shaking_ , god, his hands are shaking so badly. “Robin,” she says again, quiet and gentle. “Robin, look at me.” And still, no response, just labored breathing and trembling hands and he seems more scared than Regina has ever seen him. “Robin,” she prompts, the softest attempt yet, and she reaches out a tentative hand to brush her fingers against the skin of his arm. He starts a little at the contact but finally looks back at her, eyes searching. “It’s just me,” she soothes, resting her hand on his arm.

It takes a long moment or two for the confusion and panic in Robin’s eyes to start to clear, and there’s no mistaking the relief in his expression once her words finally sink in. “Regina,” he breathes, the tremors in his hands finally starting to subside. “You’re here.”

Regina arches an eyebrow, still confused, but she doesn’t remove her hand. “Of course I’m here,” she says. “I’ve been here all night. Where else would I be?” But Robin doesn’t speak again, just shakes his head, his breathing still shallow. She’s a little… lost as to what to do for him, how to comfort him. She’s not sure if he’d been having dreams of his own or if he’s forgotten something in his slumber, but it hardly matters now. He can’t seem to take his eyes off of her, now, gaze transfixed and weighted with worry. He’s looking at her like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he so much as _blinks_ , and she remembers doing the same, back in the spring, remembers trying to memorize him and his love and his truth.

So the only thing Regina can think of to do now is to offer him the same thing he’d given her back then -- something tangible to root them in reality. “Come here,” she murmurs, shifting onto her back and making space for him to curl up next to her. Robin goes with her pull easily, hooking a leg over hers and burying his face against her chest, arm tucked tightly around her middle. His head on her chest makes her breasts ache a little uncomfortably, but it’s not anything she can’t handle. Besides, it _is_ unusually cold for the beginning of October, so the additional warmth is welcome. They’re both quiet as she cards her fingers through his hair, and it takes a few moments, but his breathing does begin to even out. She gives him a little longer, wanting to be sure that his apparent panic has subsided, before she ventures, “Are you okay?”

Robin doesn’t answer immediately, but he does lifts his head from her chest. She can’t be sure of where his gaze lies, not at this angle, but he reaches for her hand with his own and laces their fingers together. She follows his lead without question, letting him pull her hand toward his chest. Under her palm, she can feel the still somewhat erratic beat of his heart. “I just… wanted to be sure of you.”

She almost repeats her earlier words -- _I’m here, I’ve been here_ \-- but she bites them back instead. They feel almost trite, now, as he rests his head on her chest again, clearly seeking comfort and company. She just -- she doesn’t _understand_ why he’d woken up so panicked. She’s fairly certain he’d been dreaming before he woke, but the violence of his reaction suggests that whatever had plagued his subconscious must’ve felt very real to him. It’s almost as if he’d thought she’d left, in his sleep, but that makes even less sense to her, especially when she takes into consideration the fact that she’d been dreaming herself.

Unless.

It comes back to her in broken flashes, her memory too hazy at this hour to remember properly. But she _does_ remember. She remembers the few nights of restless sleep, remembers Henry waking up this way -- gasping and panicked. She remembers the burns on his arms and the pendant around his neck and worry, so much worry for David. _The mirrors_ , he’d said. _He can’t reach her through the mirrors_. She had been _bound_ under the sleeping curse, chained to the floor in a hall full of mirrors with _fire_ beneath her. She’d seen The Dark One in a hall full of mirrors, and she’d assumed it wasn’t real. Gold is alive and in Storybrooke, and --

And then she remembers -- it’s her _soul_ that travels to the Netherworld, and the world between life and death is very much real.

Heart stuttering painfully in her chest, Regina glances down as Robin slowly starts to fall back asleep. Her fingers flex anxiously in his grasp, itching to trace the ink on his arm.

Robin is her soulmate.

What if it hadn’t been a dream? What if Robin had sensed it?

Why would she _return_ to the Hall of Mirrors?

Unsettled, Regina wraps her arms around Robin a little tighter and closes her eyes against the darkness.

* * * * *


	2. October 3, 2013 - October 5, 2013

It’s nearing four in the afternoon on Thursday when Mary Margaret finally crosses the threshold of the mayor’s office. “Sorry I’m late,” she huffs, depositing her various bags on the far table with a little more force than necessary.

Regina leans back in her chair and arches an eyebrow. “You were supposed to be here a half hour ago.”

“It’s a good thing I don’t work here any more, then,” Mary Margaret quips, digging around in one of the bags. “Staff meeting ran long at the school. We’re trying to organize Back-To-School Night. And then,” she adds, producing a plastic bag with a dramatic flourish, “I had to stop at the store to get the precious apples you requested. Although I was a little surprised when I got your text. Granny Smith, Regina, really? You normally despise green apples,” she remarks, depositing the bag on Regina’s desk before heading back to her own belongings.

Regina rolls her eyes and reaches for the bag a little more eagerly than she’s proud of. “People change,” she throws back dryly, unearthing an apple. She pushes herself to her feet and moves to the small sink in the corner to wash it off. “I didn’t think my tastes were worth noting.”

“They’re _apples_ ,” Mary Margaret says, leveling a _look_ at Regina before sinking down into one of the chairs. “How have things been here, since I left?”

Regina glances over her shoulder at the (organized) mountains of paperwork littering her desk. “Chaotic,” she answers honestly, digging around in one of the drawers for a knife to slice her apple. “How you and David ever managed to run a kingdom for that year or so before the first curse is beyond me. While I was searching for a way to destroy a dragon, you were single-handedly dismantling my beautiful bureaucracy.”

“In my defense, Storybrooke was in a state of emergency,” Mary Margaret argues. “Things needed to be taken care of, so I pushed a lot of things through.”

“And in the process, you left me with piles of unorganized and nonsensical paperwork,” Regina says, gesturing at the mountains on her desk with her knife. “Did you even _look_ at half of the things you approved this summer? I’ve spent the last month cleaning up the mess you left me.”

“And I’m sure you’re doing a fine job,” Mary Margaret says, flashing her a teasing smile. “You always were one for _infrastructure_.” And Regina can’t help it -- she smiles back before focusing her attention on carefully cutting her apple into smaller slices. “But I didn’t figure you asked me to drop by this afternoon to bring you snacks and let you criticize my leadership skills.”

“Organizational skills,” Regina counters, clarifying as she deposits the knife in the sink. “Though you did have more of a knack for city council meetings, I’ll give you that. You were always more of a people person.”

“You managed as a leader without me for _decades_ ,” Mary Margaret laughs. “Besides, your kingdom, your people, remember? You saved them from a dragon. They’ll probably cut you some slack.”

“Technically, I wasn’t the one who --”

“Okay, I’m going to stop you right there,” Mary Margaret interjects, “because you are about to _demure_ and that’s not you at all. Just tell me why I’m here, Regina.”

Regina hesitates, jaw working a little as she considers Mary Margaret. She hasn’t been avoiding the subject, exactly. There’s just not a casual way to bring this up, and Regina is, admittedly, a little anxious about it. She exhales sharply through her nose and reaches for her bowl of apple slices before maneuvering around the table to take the seat next to Mary Margaret. She’s quiet for a long moment, fingers tracing the green skin of the once bitter apples, but she doesn’t pluck a slice from the bowl, not yet. “There was something I wanted to ask you,” she admits, choosing her words carefully. “But it might be… a touchy subject.”

There’s hesitation in Mary Margaret’s eyes, now, mixed with understanding and warmth. “I’m a big girl, Regina. I think I can handle it.”

Another sharp inhale and Regina redirects her gaze to the bowl of apples, fighting to maintain her composure. Mary Margaret doesn’t know _half_ of the things that Regina has kept from her for decades because of her certainty that Mary Margaret _wouldn’t_ be able to handle them. But those things are -- were very different from this, and whether Regina likes it or not, she does need Mary Margaret’s insight on this. “After David woke you from the sleeping curse,” she ventures, slow and deliberate and far more awkward than she wants to be, “when you would wake up after coming back from the Netherworld, how did you…” And she tapers off, here, because she’s not exactly sure how to phrase this. If she’s traveling to the Netherworld, her experience is already different than everyone else she knows who has been under a sleeping curse. And it’s not herself she’s worried for right now -- it’s Robin.

“Cope?” Mary Margaret offers, recapturing Regina’s attention and gaze.

It’s not exactly how Regina would have described the situation at hand, but she figures it’s as good of a starting point as any. “Something like that, sure,” she sighs, waving Mary Margaret on and finally plucking an apple slice from the bowl. She pauses with the apple between her teeth, though, when she notices the intensity of Mary Margaret’s eyes on her. There are questions, there, behind her eyes, and Regina can only hope that she won’t ask any of them.

“When you’re first under the sleeping curse, in the Hall of Mirrors,” Mary Margaret says, propping her head up on her hand and surveying Regina a little curiously, “it’s different, isn’t it? Quiet. Dark. You’re alone.”

Regina swallows the bite of apple down.

She definitely isn’t alone in there any more.

“For me, that was harder,” Mary Margaret explains, and it’s clear now that she’s not fishing for information. “I didn’t know for sure if I’d ever get out of there, if I’d ever wake up. It was hard being away from David. I only had your word that you wouldn’t hurt him. And at the time, that wasn’t really enough.”

“Yes, but you had _ho_ \--” Regina stops, catches herself and has the decency to look a little horrified when Mary Margaret grins at her. “Nevermind. Go on.”

Mary Margaret’s grin doesn’t fade, but she manages not to laugh. “I had faith in him,” she affirms, the synonym not escaping Regina’s notice. “He came through. And that… made the Red Room a little easier to endure.”

“The Red Room,” Regina echoes, the name feeling awkward on her tongue. “That room full of fire Henry talked about?”

Mary Margaret nods. “It’s really nothing like the Hall of Mirrors, is it?” she muses. Regina plucks another apple slice from the bowl so she doesn’t have to answer. “All that fire -- it’s hot and loud and blinding. And unless you count the rare occasions you might be able to communicate with other victims of the curse, you’re still alone.”

“Different,” Regina agrees, only having the description to go on. “But that doesn’t explain why you found it easier to bear than the Hall of Mirrors.” Mary Margaret doesn’t answer at first. Instead, she sits up a little and reaches for an apple slice. Regina bats her hand away and levels a glare at her. “I’m not the one sharing here. Keep talking.”

Mary Margaret raises her eyebrows in clear judgement, but she doesn’t reach for the bowl again. “The Red Room is… chaos, Regina. I never found a way to navigate it. I almost got burned several times. But it was easier because I knew that I would wake up, eventually, and David would always be there when I did. He was my anchor.”

Regina thinks of Robin waking up yesterday morning, near panic and confused and _I just wanted to be sure of you_. She’d tried to anchor him, then, but she feels like they’re both still a little adrift. This, at least, is something Mary Margaret can help her with, even if she thinks that Regina’s the one who needs an anchor. “How?” Regina asks. “How did -- what did he do that helped to anchor you? How did he help you cope? I never really had much of a chance to figure out how to do that with Henry beyond going to Gold for help.”

Mary Margaret’s eyes narrow a little, clearly confused and curious. Regina can see them, more questions sparking into Mary Margaret’s eyes, but Regina doesn’t think she’ll ask these ones either. “He lit candles,” Mary Margaret says instead.

It takes everything in Regina not to laugh. “That’s not ironic at all.”

Mary Margaret shrugs and leans against the back of her chair. “Neither of us knew what we were really dealing with at the time. David thought it would capture the nightmares.”

“But they’re not nightmares,” Regina supplies knowingly, mirroring Mary Margaret’s position.

There’s a hint of a sad smile on Mary Margaret’s lips as she shakes her head. “No,” she agrees. “They’re not. But when I was in there, Regina, I knew David was watching over me while I slept. I knew he’d be there when I woke up. And knowing that -- knowing that I wasn’t alone? That helped.”

And there is ache in Regina’s chest at that, useless and without direction and she still doesn’t know what to do. “Somehow, I don’t think that’s going to be enough,” she sighs, reaching for another slice. More quiet, more study, and Regina shifts uncomfortably under Mary Margaret’s gaze. The unasked questions are hanging heavy in the air between them, questions Regina _knows_ Mary Margaret wants to ask. Regina finds herself exceedingly grateful that Mary Margaret is exhibiting tact and restraint by _not_ asking them, and that, at least, is something she can take from this supremely awkward conversation.

She’s surprised when Mary Margaret leans forward a little, fingers flexing like she wants to reach for Regina’s hands. “Look, Regina, I don’t know if this is going to help at all, but people don’t always cope with things the same way. What worked for me isn’t necessarily going to work for you.”

Regina bites back another laugh because god, isn’t that the truth. “So what’s your suggestion, then?”

“Find a common thread,” Mary Margaret offers. “Talk to other people who have been through this like we have. Ask them what you asked me. Figure out what our coping mechanisms have in common. Maybe that will give you a little direction.”

Regina closes her eyes and remembers the curiosity and pain of not being able to see her reflection in the mirrors. Mary Margaret may not know exactly what Regina might be dealing with right now, but the advice hits closer to home than Regina was expecting. “There, um -- there aren’t that many of us,” she says, clearing her throat a little before opening her eyes. “For most of you, it’s been a long time.”

Mary Margaret curls her fingers inward, clearly forcing herself not to reach for Regina’s hand. “It has,” she acknowledges. “I’d be surprised if any of us still go there any more. But that doesn’t mean we’ve forgotten what it’s like, Regina. I’m sure we’ve all found our own ways to cope.” She hesitates, for a moment, before leaning back in her chair again. “Talk to Aurora first,” she suggests. “She’s not the most recent victim, after you, but I was with her when she first started traveling to the Red Room. I tried to help her as much as I could, but she probably had to find other ways to manage once Emma and I came back to Storybrooke.”

Regina reaches for another slice and takes a moment to consider the option. It’s been hard enough to come to Mary Margaret with this, but the amount of information Regina has had to share has been minimal. She can’t imagine it would be all that different with Aurora. And Aurora -- well, Regina understands Aurora in a lot of ways that have surprised her, in recent months. They’re not as different as she’d initially thought. They are both mothers. They both tend to make dangerous sacrifices for the people they care about. They are both obstinate and headstrong and tend to make really reckless choices in a crisis. And Aurora is -- well, Regina _sees_ pieces of herself in Aurora, fractured and forgotten from when she was eighteen and grieving. But Aurora is also resilient, and that, Regina thinks, is something she can recognize above everything else.

“Maybe,” she says quietly. “Maybe.”

* * * * *

_There is fire in the Hall of Mirrors._

_It’s something Regina’s noticed before, of course, but not something she ever paid all that much attention to. There was light to cast shadows when she was under the curse, light to guide her home when Rumplestiltskin was here. The torches that light the hall of mirrors are far and few between but they’re here, and much like last time, Regina finds herself drawn to them. She gravitates toward the flames, feet bare against the warm, glass floor. Fire has always been her element, sparking the magic in her veins. It awakens something familiar in her, now, and Regina remembers that she can call upon her magic in the Netherworld._

_This time, she doesn’t even get the chance to reach out a hand to touch before she’s startled out of her reverie._

_“Hello, child.”_

_Regina curls her fingers away as she glances over at the farthest mirror, but the sight that greets her still burns._

_“Daddy,” she breathes, turning to face the mirror he’s trapped in. “Daddy, you’re --”_

_“Dead, child, yes,” he says, cocking his head to the side as he studies her._

_She tries to take a breath to steady herself and fails, the sight of him enough to knock the breath out of her and quell the fire in her veins. Her feet move quickly across glass to meet him, her hands hovering over the mirror, hesitant to touch. “How -- are you really here?” she asks, eyes examining the mirror carefully._

_“You tell me,” he says._

_Regina ceases her study and meets his eyes through the looking glass. This is a land between the living and the dead, and Regina cannot make sense of it. Her own reflection is lost to her and he is all she sees and it’s been nearly three decades since she’s seen him at all. Her last memories of him are cold and dark and aching, the light gone from his eyes as his heart had sifted through her fingers. Ache is useless without action, and Regina finds that she doesn’t care if he’s really here or not. Tentatively, she presses her fingertips against the glass that encompasses him. The resistance she’s met with makes her feel safe enough to press her palms against the mirror, but it also feeds her ache. “Daddy,” she whispers, resting her forehead against the glass. “I miss you.”_

_“I’m in here because of you,” he says, and while it’s not so much an accusation as it is an explanation, the words still burn._

_Regina squeezes her eyes shut and tries very hard not to cry. “I’m sorry,” she says, voice thick._

_Her father doesn’t speak again for a long moment, but when he does, he sounds the most alive he has in years. “You feel remorse for what you did to me,” he says, a touch of wonder in his tone._

_Regina lifts her head and opens her eyes, eyes brimming with tears. “Of course I do,” she implores. “You’re my father. You were the thing I loved most. I hated having to do that to you.”_

_Any trace of light Regina may have imagined to be in his eyes is gone, now, dim and devoid. “And yet you don’t regret it.”_

_Regina tries to swallow around her ache, ignoring the way her heart beats painfully against her chest. Her skin feels uncomfortable, tight around the edges, and there’s a faint memory creeping in, bound in darkness to a tree that preys on regret. She shakes her head a little and tries to focus, tries to take advantage of the fact that her father is here in some form. “I have a son,” she says, dragging her fingertips along the mirror and wishing she could touch him. “I named him after you.”_

_Regina knows that look on his face, the one that tells her how much he wants to smile but can’t. “And he is the reason you don’t regret what you did to me,” her father reiterates._

_Regina drops her gaze and presses her hands painfully against the mirror, fingers tense with the effort not to lash out. “I had to do a lot of things in order to have my son in my life,” she reasons, and she is deflecting and defending and she will not lash out, she won’t._

_“You don’t regret killing me,” her father says, and Regina snaps._

_“Of course I don’t!” she gasps, pushing away from the mirror and flicking her eyes up to look at him again. The tears brimming in her eyes are very close to falling, now, and every mirror around her amounts to decades of resentment. “I suffered years of torment and abuse at Mother’s hands and you let it happen. I grew up watching her do the same thing to you. You knew what it felt like, and you never once stood up for me, not when it mattered! Not while I was growing up, not when she married me off to Leopold, not when Rumplestiltskin was pulling my strings, not ever,” she bites out viciously. “You never once tried to pull me back, never once stood up to me and told me I’d chosen the wrong path. You only ever tried to reach me when it benefited you, Daddy, because you were always more selfish than I ever wanted to admit. You stood there,” she rants, voice pitching high with incredulity, “and watched me spiral and spiral into darkness and never did a damn thing about it,” she accuses, and she is angry, angry, angry. Her breath comes in harsh bursts and she can’t look at him anymore so she turns away, head in her hands and her hands are shaking with darkness, the dagger --_

_“Tempting, isn’t it, sis?”_

_Regina snaps her head up and whirls back around, hands still shaking as she struggles to catch her breath. “Zelena,” she rasps, voice raw. “You’re --”_

_“Dead, yes, astute observation,” Zelena drawls. “Your grasp of the obvious is, as always, inspiring.”_

_Anger, anger, anger, and Regina has not seen her sister in months. The last memories she has of Zelena are dim and faded, quiet and solitary and bathed in anchors of light. Light, light, light, Regina had taken Zelena’s magic from her with light and Regina had strived to bring her into it, to extend the lifeline she’d been given. A breath, a second chance, and the tremors in Regina’s hands start to fade. Each breath she takes is deliberate, measured and necessary as she crosses the hall toward the mirror again. Daddy is gone and her feet are bare and there are flames around her. She thinks of the steps she’d taken in Maleficent’s foyer, careful and calculated. Regina does not bring her heart into witch fights but hers is beating senselessly in her chest and Zelena is dead, dead, dead._

_Regina is not safe, here._

_She comes to a halt several feet away from the mirror this time, not trusting enough to move any closer. “You’re dead,” she says again, ignoring the way Zelena rolls her eyes. “I don’t -- I’ve spent months trying to figure out why you did it,” Regina admits, and for all that her body is sleeping, her soul is exhausted and ready to wake. “I didn’t -- I sat outside of that cell and offered you a second chance at a family. And you just -- you didn’t just reject it, Zelena. You took your own life, and I don’t -- I never understood why. I mean, I did -- I do,” she amends, running a hand through her hair. “There were so many times I wanted to do the same. But you -- I never expected you to kill yourself. I’ve never made sense of it.”_

_Zelena arches her eyebrows and folds her arms over her chest, her gaze just as studious as Daddy’s had been and they’re dead, dead, dead. “Who told you that?”_

_Regina’s brow wrinkles in confusion. “No one had to tell me,” she says, the memory an untended wound. “I watched it happen.”_

_“Funny,” Zelena says, short and clipped, “I don’t remember you being there.”_

_“There was -- the camera,” Regina tries to explain, fumbling for words. “The whole thing got caught on tape.”_

_Exasperation and condescension fill every line in Zelena’s face. “Please tell me you’re not naive enough to think something like that can’t be manipulated.”_

_Regina’s hands still. “It would’ve been done by magic,” she counters. “Emma wouldn’t have done it.”_

_“She may be the Savior, sis, but her magic is practically useless if she doesn’t know how to use it,” Zelena says. “And Emma Swan never had a real reason to want to kill me.”_

_Regina’s fingers curl into a fist. “Gold,” she murmurs. “But that’s not -- I stopped him,” she insists, and she cannot believe she is trying to apply logic to her insane sister. “I took the dagger --”_

_“And then what did you do with it?” Zelena prompts, unfolding her arms and taking a step closer to her side of the looking glass._

_And the realization works its way up her throat before it really registers in her brain. “I gave it to Belle,” Regina says dully, hardly able to see straight. “I gave it to Belle, and she --” And the Hall of Mirrors grows dim, the flames of the torches starting to flicker and fade as guilt creeps back in around the edges and into the shadows as she remembers. Regina gave the dagger to Belle, who gave it to Gold, who manipulated Belle into thinking he’d given it back. But he’d had the real thing for weeks, and it’s only now that Regina realizes he must’ve had it in his possession when Zelena died._

_Regina meets Zelena’s eyes and swallows hard. “You didn’t do it,” she breathes, and Regina cannot fathom why she finds comfort in that. “Rumple -- Gold, he did. He --”_

_“-- murdered me,” Zelena seethes, hands pressed against the glass. “What good was a second chance, Regina, if he took it from me?” Regina closes her eyes and exhales heavily. She can’t do this, can’t carry this weight, can’t process the revelation, can’t walk the line between light and dark, not here, not now, not like this, not with the dagger in her possession and the voices of the dead in her ears and -- “You feed the madness and it feeds you,” Zelena says, and it’s Rumple’s voice, a song composed of daggers._

_“Stop,” Regina gasps, turning away from the mirror and forcing her hands over her ears. “Please, just stop.” And there is nothing, now, no sound but the beat of her own heart and the breath in her lungs. Her hands shake and the world is dark behind her eyes and she feels cold with fire beneath her feet. She takes several minutes to try and anchor herself, to remember what the Hall of Mirrors was like under the curse -- quiet, dark, alone. Slowly, she manages to pull herself together. The trembling of her hands starts to ebb, her breathing starting to even out, the resilient thumping of her heart finding its rested constant again._

_How had she ever felt powerful here? How had she ever felt in control? How had she ever thought she could be safe?_

_It’s a startling about-face, sudden and quick and it’s only her third visit._

_How had she ever thought this wasn’t real?_

_The second she lowers her hands, the silence she’s manufactured is gone. “Regina.”_

_She blinks her eyes open at the voice, familiar and forgotten all at once. Her father occupies a different mirror, now, still trapped behind the looking glass. She can’t find it in her to feel shame at her relief in seeing him again, at the ease with which tears finally fall from her eyes. “Daddy,” she chokes out, moving swiftly toward the mirror. “Daddy, I need to wake up, please --”_

_“No regrets,” he says, sounding a little sad as she slows to a stop in front of the mirror. “None at all.”_

_“Daddy,” she says again, and this time when she touches the mirror, there is darkness in her hands._

_In the reflection, her father turns to ash like his heart._

_Startled and beyond horrified, Regina pushes away from the mirror with a gasp and too much force, effectively knocking the standing mirror to the ground. The glass shatters into pieces and there is ash on the ground near her feet, and still she doesn’t wake. She is shaking again and stumbling backward, away from the dusted, jagged edges. Her back collides with another of the standing mirrors, and before she can do much more than jump in surprise, there is a hand closing around her throat._

_Zelena’s voice is right next to her ear, now, raw and angry and dripping with delighted danger. “I’m in here because of you,” she rasps, and Regina cannot breathe. She claws at the hand around her throat to no avail, and in her desperation, she reaches her hands back and sinks them through the looking glass to try and push her sister off._

_It works -- Zelena’s hand is gone and Regina can finally stumble forward and fall to her knees in the center of the hall. She manages one gasping, shuddering intake of air before the second mirror makes contact with the ground and shatters. Zelena is in pieces -- always in pieces in death -- and Regina can barely draw breath._

_When she looks down at her hands, they’re stained blood red._

* * * * *

Henry wakes up to the sound of someone screaming.

He’s half sitting up and barely awake, but it only takes him a few more seconds to recognize the voice.

 _Mom_.

He’s swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and stumbling out into the hallway before his brain can even really register it, his hands heavy against the walls as he tries to find his balance. It takes him three tries to twist the bedroom door knob and push the door open. The light that greets him when he half-falls into the room forces him to rub the sleep from his eyes. “Mom?” he mumbles, blinking to get used to the light. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

She doesn’t answer, but Henry can still hear her, gasping for air, and the sight of her once his vision clears scares him. She’s definitely awake, sitting up and shaking really badly all over, and she keeps looking at her hands like there’s something wrong with them. It’s only then that Henry notices Robin, sitting up next to her with a hand rubbing comfortingly on her back. He looks just as scared as Henry feels, and all it takes is Robin meeting his eyes for Henry to take a step toward the bed.

He stops, though, once he hears a voice behind him. “Daddy?” Henry turns, shoulders falling a little when he sees Roland shuffling sleepily into the room. “What happened?”

Henry looks back to Robin, who looks torn for a split second as his eyes flick between Roland and Mom. Robin makes a decision pretty quickly, hand falling from Mom’s back as he shifts to get out of bed. They’re both surprised when Mom reaches for him, her grip tight on Robin’s arm to get him to stay with her. She still doesn’t speak, though, doesn’t look at any of them, and that’s when Henry knows that something is really, _really_ wrong. She always puts her kids first, and right now it’s like they’re not even there. Robin hesitates, studies Mom a little harder before glancing back over at them, looking a little helpless.

As freaked out as Henry is, he also knows that this could get pretty bad. Roland’s only five, and even though Henry doesn’t know exactly what’s going on, he knows that trying to explain it to Roland will be difficult and might just create more problems. Roland doesn’t need to be scared, not if they can protect him from it, so Henry reaches for Roland’s hand and heads for the bedroom door. “Come on,” he urges. “Let’s go back to sleep.”

“But --”

“Go with Henry,” Robin instructs. “Everything will be all right.”

Roland hesitates for a moment, but he does eventually obey, gripping Henry’s hand tight and allowing Henry to walk him back to his bedroom. It’s clear by the time they reach Roland’s bedroom that he’s _barely_ awake, eyes drooping heavily as Henry helps him back into bed. “Is Regina okay?” he asks as Henry pulls the blankets over him.

“I think so,” Henry says, not wanting to lie but not wanting to make Roland worry. “She probably just had a bad dream. Those are never nice.”

“No,” Roland agrees, yawning and clutching tightly to his stuffed monkey. “Night, Henry,” he mumbles, already well on his way back to sleep. Henry opts to sit with him for a few more minutes to make sure Roland’s really asleep, the extra time giving Henry a chance to wake up a little more. He remembers nights like this when he was little, remembers being too afraid to fall asleep alone. Mom had stayed up with him, then, when he was really young, her hands a calming comfort.

There’s no way Henry’s going back to sleep until he’s sure she’s okay.

So he gets up and makes his way back down the hall to her room (her and Robin’s room, now, which is weird and still taking some getting used to even after almost a month), determined. The light’s still on when he enters the room again, but they’re not quite sitting up in bed any more. Robin’s leaning against the headboard, Mom curled up against his side. She seems to have calmed down a little in the last several minutes, her breathing even and her body less tense. She’s still quiet, though, and she still doesn’t look over at Henry when he sinks down to sit on the bed next to her. A quick glance over at the clock on the nightstand tells him that it’s just past two in the morning, and Henry’s really glad that it’s Saturday and he doesn’t have to get up for school in five hours. He turns his attention back to his mother, fingers itching to reach out for her. “Mom?” he prompts gently. Still nothing, so Henry directs his gaze at Robin, searching for answers. “What happened?”

Robin doesn’t look at him either, but he does answer the question. “Not sure,” he murmurs, eyes filled with apprehension. “She just… woke up screaming, kept examining her hands. She hasn’t said a word. I think maybe she was just… dreaming.”

Henry is spared from having to say what he’s thinking -- a dream wouldn’t leave her like this -- when Mom finally speaks up. “Not a dream,” she says, so quiet that Henry can barely make out the words. “Netherworld.”

For a moment, Henry’s heart stops.

He should’ve expected this, should’ve seen it coming. It’s been almost six weeks since she’d taken that sleeping curse for him, six weeks since she’d woken up and come home. She’d assured him she was okay, back then, has been okay ever since. She hasn’t had her magic, either, but Henry thinks that’s just temporary. Mom has been okay -- she’s been _happy_ in the last month or so, and it kills him that it’s never allowed to last.

Right now, Mom is scared, and Henry wants her to be happy.

“Netherworld,” Robin echoes, his forehead scrunched in confusion. “What’s the Netherworld?”

Mom doesn’t answer, just leans against Robin a little more heavily. She looks _exhausted_ but she doesn’t close her eyes, doesn’t try to sleep. Henry sighs and rubs at the back of his neck, trying to figure out how to explain. “It’s kind of like -- it’s a place, sort of,” he says. “When someone goes under a sleeping curse, their soul goes to this place called the Netherworld. Grandpa -- Gold, he said it was a place between the living and the dead.”

Robin raises his eyebrows, concern apparent in his expression. He ducks his head a little, trying to get a better look at Mom, but then he stops, redirecting his gaze at Henry. “You know,” he says. “You’ve been there.”

Mom still won’t look either of them in the eyes. “Yeah,” Henry confirms with a heavy sigh. “I have. It’s not… the greatest of places. When I was first under, there was this great big hall full of mirrors, but I was only ever there once. After Emma woke me -- after everyone gets woken up, we go somewhere else.”

“So, what, like different places?” Robin guesses, clearly trying to make sense of it. “Sections? Wings?”

“Something like that, I guess,” Henry says with a shrug. “When I would go back, it was definitely a different part of the Netherworld -- this big red room full of --” The realization strikes him all at once, his eyes falling to Mom’s arms, covered by the material of her pajamas. He remembers the searing pain that had licked at his skin, remembers the marks left behind.

He remember the way she’d looked at her hands moments ago.

“Her arms,” he says, rushed and urgent. “Check her arms. We need to see if she’s burned --”

“ _Burned_?” Robin echoes, sounding alarmed and honestly a little horrified. “Why would she be --”

“The Red Room is full of fire,” Henry explains quickly, reaching for Mom’s arms himself. Robin catches on quickly, after that, and they each push up the material of her sleeves to examine her skin.

Nothing.

She’s okay.

She’s _okay_ , and Henry lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Mom,” he says, grasping her hand with his own. She hasn’t responded to their touch, has barely acknowledged them at all beyond telling them why she’d woken up screaming, but Henry’s not giving up on her yet. He’ll stay up the rest of the night if he has to because he _knows_ what this feels like, remembers how lost and scared and alone he’d felt during his own visits to the Netherworld. She’d done what she could to help him, to give him tools and guidance and a way to feel safe. He knows he can do the same for her, now, and for the first time in _months_ , Henry finally feels useful. “Mom,” he tries again, and it’s his turn to duck his head to try and force her to look at him. “Mom, it’s going to be okay. I’ll go see Grandpa in the morning and get you one of those pendants --”

“ _No_ ,” she says sharply, squeezing his hand so tightly that it hurts. She finally meets his eyes but doesn’t sit up, doesn’t pull away from Robin’s arms. “Absolutely not.”

Henry’s eyes narrow in confusion. “But it’ll _help_ ,” he reminds her, trying not to sound too frustrated.

“No,” she says again, firm despite how exhausted she sounds. “Under absolutely no circumstances, Henry Daniel Mills, are you to go see him, do you understand me?”

Henry huffs out a breath, impatient and annoyed. He gets why she’s being stubborn about this -- Grandpa Gold hasn’t exactly made the best choices this year and Mom’s still really pissed about a lot of things. But she needs _help_ , and Henry doesn’t want her to refuse it just because she’s angry. “Fine,” he agrees, encouraged when she slackens her grip on his hand. “Then will _you_ go see him and ask for it?”

“Henry,” Robin cuts in gently. “You know why she’s kept her distance from Gold.”

It takes a supreme amount of effort for Henry not to roll his eyes, which he thinks is pretty impressive considering that it’s the middle of the night. “Yeah, I do,” he says. “But that shouldn’t matter when she might get _hurt_.”

“Henry,” she says, finally sitting back up. She hooks her fingers under his chin to force eye contact, and the gesture makes him feel uncomfortably young. He’s almost thirteen, he’s not a kid anymore, and yeah, she’s his _mom_ but he’s just trying to _help her_. “You know that all magic comes with a price,” she reminds him. “Gold always has a price. I’m done making deals with him. I won’t be in his debt any more.”

Henry clenches his jaw, beyond frustrated. He’s just as stubborn as she is, some of the time, and he won’t let her just _suffer_ like this. There has to be a way around it, has to be a way to convince her that this is the right thing to do, that it’s Gold who should be in her debt, Gold who owes her the favors, Gold she could _force_ into helping her if she used the dagger --

Henry blinks rapidly and shakes his head, forcing the thought from his mind.

 _No_.

That’s not who Mom is any more.

He can be better than that. They both can.

Mom drops her fingers from his face and leans back into Robin’s embrace, eyes falling to her hands again. “I am still… _very_ angry with him,” she admits. “But I don’t want to do something I’ll regret.” Robin closes his eyes and presses a kiss to Mom’s head, and Henry’s heart fills with ache. He hates this, hates that in spite of how far Mom has come, she still feels like she has something to prove. She keeps making choices for herself and for others and for _good_ , and fate keeps creating hills for her to climb.

She’s not a villain -- she’s his _mom_ , and Henry is tired of seeing her burned.

* * * * *


	3. October 6, 2013 - October 8, 2013

On Sunday morning, Regina has just finished off her glass of orange juice when her phone vibrates on the table. She can’t help but bite her lip in apprehension once she sees that it’s a text message from Henry. _Robin said you went for a walk. Where are you?_

Regina takes a breath to steel herself and sits up a little straighter on her stool. _Granny’s_ she types out. _Meeting a friend._

Henry’s delayed response only makes her stomach twist into knots. _Did you sleep okay last night?_

It’s Regina’s turn to hesitate, now, as she tries to think of an appropriate answer. She ends up sending back _Like a baby_ because it’s at least a partial truth. She hadn’t slept nearly enough last night, too shaken from her experience the night before last, but when she did sleep, she slept well. She figures that’s probably due to exhaustion, but she doesn’t have to tell Henry that. _I’ll be home in a little while_ , she adds. _I’ll make everyone brunch._

Henry’s final response brings a smile to her face at last and puts her at ease. _Crepes?_

 _We’ll see_ , she types back, laughing out loud. Satisfied that she’s quelled his worry, Regina deposits her phone back in her purse and pushes her empty glass across the bar toward Ruby, who offers her a strange, quirky little smile. Henry’s message has finally given her reason to stop stalling, but Regina can’t help looking over her shoulder at the main street outside, contemplating.

The pawnshop is right down the street.

No.

_No._

She won’t be tempted.

She looks away from the window and shakes her hands, itching to get rid of the feeling of darkness that lingers the longer she has the dagger in her possession. It’s not here with her, obviously -- she’s not stupid enough for that -- but it feels like she carries it with her everywhere. Out of sight but not out of mind, and Regina’s recent visits to the Hall of Mirrors have served as enough of a reminder of how _easy_ it is for her to fade back into the shadows. And the fact that she can use her magic in there -- it’s part of how she knows that her magic is broken but mending, but it also makes her nervous. She’s not sure what her magic will look like, once she gets it back in reality, and deep down, she’s very much afraid.

What if she’s lost her light?

It’s just another item on her perpetual list of things to worry about, really, another facet of the Hall of Mirrors she doesn’t understand or know how to combat. And Regina _hates_ this feeling even more than guilt and remorse. She hates feeling inadequate, hates not having a strategy or a plan or a way out. She is the most resilient. She endures. She learns to live with the darker parts of herself. But right now, her prospects look… dim. She doesn’t have control over her visits to the Netherworld, much less which part of it her soul travels to. She doesn’t know if the visits affect Robin at all aside from scaring him half to death when she’d woken up screaming in the middle of the night. She’s having trouble pacifying Henry and keeping him out of this and it’s really only just begun.

And she is tempted.

Regina closes her eyes and shakes her head. She’s not sure that Mary Margaret’s suggestion is going to be as helpful, given recent developments, but it’s the only plan Regina has right now. She refuses to take Henry’s suggestion into consideration, won’t even _think_ about going to see Gold. Because she’d meant what she’d said -- she is _done_ being bound to him. And she _is_ still incredibly angry with him, Belle’s reminder of his recent faults still fresh enough in her mind feed and fester the wounds Regina carries because of him. He’s hurt so many people this year alone.

Zelena included.

Regina swallows and flexes her fingers before reaching for her purse and pushing herself to her feet. She’s been avoiding thinking about it too much because there really isn’t a fair way to weigh out the sins of her former mentor against her sister. But more than anything, Regina’s been trying not to dwell on it because it lights a fire under the pain of what she _thought_ she’d known, and feeding pain turns it into anger.

Regina doesn’t want to be angry -- she wants to cope.

So she makes her way to the bed and breakfast in the back of the diner and climbs the stairs to the second floor. She stops in front of room nineteen, hand hovering in hesitation at the door for a long moment before she finally knocks.

It’s Mulan who answers. “Regina,” she greets, clearly a little surprised but not unwarm.

“Hi,” Regina returns, smile a little awkward as she shifts her purse from one hand to the other. “I was wondering if Aurora was here? I had some questions I wanted to ask her.”

Regina can see curiosity spark in Mulan’s eyes at the request, but thankfully, she doesn’t ask questions. “She just left for her Mommy and Me class with the baby about ten minutes ago,” Mulan says. “You’re welcome to wait for her, if you like, or I can let her know you were here.”

Regina sighs and shakes her head, doing her best not to seem disappointed. She doesn’t want to infringe upon Aurora’s time with her son, and she’s going to have to wait regardless of the choice she makes. She’d prefer to do it at home where she’s more comfortable rather than sit here awkwardly for the next hour. “No,” she declines, hoisting the strap of her purse onto her shoulder. “I can just --” And then she stops, the realization striking her as her eyes sweep over Mulan’s frame. Coping mechanisms from Aurora might be helpful, certainly, but she probably had help with those. Mulan might be able to give Regina the same answer she’s looking for with a little more… objective perspective. “Actually, that’s -- may I speak with you, instead?” she ventures.

Mulan arches an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I suppose,” she says after a moment, sounding amused as she steps aside to let Regina into the room. “I can’t promise that I’ll have any answers for you, but I’ll do what I can. And in the meantime,” she adds, closing the door behind her, “you can help me with the laundry.”

Regina does laugh at that, eyes surveying the baskets of what are presumably clean clothes on the floor next to the bed. “Still taking a little getting used to the way it works here?” she guesses, setting her purse down on a side table and crossing the room to where Mulan is standing next to the baskets.

“I think I’ve got most of it figured out,” Mulan says, picking up a basket and setting it on the bed. “There was an unfortunate incident with bleach last month, but otherwise, I’m managing just fine.” Regina’s lips twist into a smile, but she tactfully doesn’t laugh and reaches for the second basket. Her heart twinges a little with an affectionate ache when she realizes that she’s been delegated to folding the baby clothes. She’s quiet as she carries the basket to the rocking chair and sets it back on the ground before sinking into the chair. “So,” Mulan sighs, unearthing a lavender dress from her own basket, “you had questions.”

“I did,” Regina affirms, digging a onesie out from the basket and setting to work. “I wanted to know -- you were there when Aurora woke from her sleeping curse, weren’t you?”

Mulan pauses in her perusal of the closet for hangers and glances over her shoulder at Regina, curiosity burning in her eyes. “I was,” she answers, turning her attention back to the hangers.

“And you were there,” Regina continues, deliberately training her eyes on the clothes in her hands, “when she started traveling to the Netherworld.”

The silence is heavy in the air between them, the tension thick, and only with Mulan can Regina bring herself to lift her gaze. Because for all that Regina sees pieces of herself in Aurora, she also feels kinship with Mulan -- attempting to direct ache into action, surviving on the fumes of resilience alone. Regina can meet her eyes and know that Mulan won’t pry, won’t ask the questions Regina doesn’t want to answer, the ones she doesn’t have answers to. Mulan had buried her solitude and pain and love for a very long time, and Regina knows she can count on Mulan to understand that sometimes things need to come to light in their own time.

“Yes,” Mulan says finally, back to digging through the clothes in her own basket, “I was. So was Emma. So was Snow.”

“I know,” Regina says, nose scrunching when she picks up an adorable duck-patterned bib. “I, um -- I’ve already spoken with Mary Margaret about it. She said she tried to help Aurora cope as best she could.”

Mulan softens into a smile as she unearths a white cardigan. “Yes,” she agrees, “she did. Snow watched over Aurora while she slept, comforted her when she would wake. I think it helped, as much as it could at the time with everything else that was going on.”

Regina inhales sharply and puts Mother from her mind, trying to stay focused. “Mary Margaret -- Snow,” she amends, opting for Mulan’s moniker in spite of how awkward it feels on Regina’s tongue after years without use. “Snow said that David lit candles for her, when she was dealing with the Netherworld. Did she do the same for Aurora?”

“No,” Mulan laughs, shaking her head. “It wouldn’t have been practical with how much we moved around while they were there. Mostly Snow just… sat with her,” she explains, voice pitching a little quieter. “She made sure Aurora knew she wasn’t alone when she woke up. I think that helped a lot.”

Regina’s lips twist into a mildly annoyed smile. “Yes, she mentioned that, too.”

“We made do with what we had, Regina,” Mulan explains. “That didn’t really change much even after Snow and Emma left. Aurora and I had another journey in front of us. There wasn’t really time to stop and find an ideal way to deal with the nightmares. I could barely manage to find a salve for her burns.”

Regina’s fingers still on the tiny corduroy jumper in her hands, her heart beating painfully in her chest. She’d never managed to find a way to heal Henry’s burns herself before her mother had arrived, had barely found a way to grant him guidance and keep him safe. There’s so much Regina wishes she could have done for him, back then, and it’s with a pang in her chest that she realizes Henry’s trying to do the same for her, now. He thinks she’s traveling to the Red Room, that much is apparent, and she remembers his hysteria when she’d come home after her curse. Henry wants to help her and he _can’t_ , especially considering that her situation in the Netherworld is -- as far as she knows -- unprecedented. Regina is bound to the Hall of Mirrors, and even though her hands had been clean when she’d woken, her soul still feels the sting and stain. She’s worried -- and now Robin and Henry are, too, which makes it worse.

She has to find ways to cope because this isn’t just about her, any more.

“So, um -- that’s all you did, then?” Regina asks, clearing her throat and folding the jumper hastily. “You sat with her while she slept and when she woke?”

“At first,” Mulan says. “After a while, it was apparent that wasn’t going to be enough any more.” She pauses, here, causing Regina to look up at her. She’s halted in her own progress, now, fingers toying with a stray thread on the bottom of a skirt. Regina deposits a plethora of socks onto her lap and leans back in the rocking chair, her hands staying busy as she watches and waits. “I think having Snow around anchored her,” Mulan muses, sinking down onto the bed. “Snow knew what Aurora was going through. After Snow came back to Storybrooke…Things were different. Aurora didn’t have to keep going there in order to help, but she did.”

“And she lost her anchor,” Regina supplies, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. This is the common thread Mary Margaret had been talking about, anchors and not being alone and it doesn’t feel like enough, _why_ doesn’t it feel like enough? “Did she ever find another anchor?”

Mulan nods and sets the skirt aside, leaning back against the pillows on on the bed. “When Aurora was a child, her mother used to sing to her constantly. Aurora said she found it comforting.”

Regina can’t help the amused smile that plays at her lips. “So you sang to her?” she prompts, doing her best not to laugh.

Mulan does, instead. “I did, although not very well,” she laughs, glancing over at Regina again. “Aurora didn’t seem to mind my… lack of talent.” The smile her laughter brings fades fairly quickly, though, the light in her eyes dimming a little. “It worked when I was with her. After Phillip’s return, I wasn’t with her when she slept. I don’t know if she asked him to do the same for her or if they tried something else. I’m not sure they needed to. The visits are supposed to fade, with time.”

“Supposed to,” Regina echoes quietly. She bites her lip, contemplating, before she deposits the paired socks back into the basket. “Did they... start up again over the summer?”

Mulan’s silence is answer enough. “A lot happened this summer,” she says instead.

“Yes,” Regina agrees. “It did.” She looks down at the last item of clothing in her lap -- a navy blue sock with an apple sewn onto the side -- and smiles. Henry had a pair almost identical to this, when he was a baby, and Regina’s startled by the tears that sting at her eyes at the memory. “You, um -- you have a lone sock,” she says thickly, clearing her throat and holding it out in offering as she looks up again.

Mulan’s eyes narrow in annoyance, but she pushes herself to her feet and crosses the room to take it. “Every time,” she mutters, glancing around the room in what is clearly an attempt to try and find the sock’s mate. “I don’t understand it.”

Regina laughs under her breath and bites her tongue, figuring it’s best if she doesn’t try to explain the silly superstitions of this world just yet. Her phone buzzes in her purse, providing her with a distraction and prompting her to her feet. She’s unsurprised when she digs her phone out and finds a message from Henry. The photograph attached to the message -- an aerial view of Robin and the boys passed out on the living room floor -- is enough to distract her from her current worries. The caption is enough to make her laugh out loud -- _growing weak. need food. please help._ She smiles up at Mulan as she deposits her phone back in her purse. “I should get home,” she admits, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I’m surprised they’ve survived this long without me as it is.”

Mulan returns the smile with ease and follows her to the door. “Thank you for the help. I’m not sure I was much help to you, though.”

Regina turns around once she’s reached the doorway. “You were,” she assures Mulan. “There are things I need to figure out on my own, I think, but this gives me a little… direction. Thank you.”

She offers Mulan a parting smile and makes it a few feet down the hall when Mulan ends up calling after her. “Regina,” Mulan says, still managing to keep her voice quiet so her neighbors don’t overhear. Regina turns but doesn’t walk back, eyebrows raised expectantly. “What… exactly did Robin tell you about what happened to him, when you were under that sleeping curse?”

Regina grips the handle of her purse a little tighter. It’s not what she’s been trying to avoid talking about in explicit terms, but it’s still close, tangential enough to make her uncomfortable. She is not alone in this -- not with her soulmate, not with Robin. Mulan’s question is heavy with implication that there’s something Regina is missing. “He said you helped him get out of that dungeon,” she says, careful and hesitant. “You helped him get to me.”

Mulan’s expression is still fairly unreadable, much to Regina’s annoyance, and the words she offers up don’t give Regina much more insight. “You should talk to him,” Mulan suggests. “I’m willing to bet he hasn’t told you the whole story.” Regina narrows her eyes, unhappy at the thought, but where Mulan’s words are vague they are also a balm. “You’re in this together,” she says. “It affects him, too.”

Regina swallows around her ache. “I know,” she says. “Believe me, I know.”

* * * * *

_Broken glass dusted in ash litters the floor, and Regina’s feet dance around the edges, following the path of necriscence._

_“Follow me.”_

_She stills, lifting her gaze from the floor as she tries to pinpoint where the voice is coming from. “Follow me,” the voice says again, distant and echoing and all around. “Follow me,” it says one more time, a harsh whisper, and out of the corner of her eye she sees a flash of movement. She turns toward it, curious but wary, but she finds nothing. “Follow me,” the voice beckons, and she finally sees it -- the flowing ends of a cloak disappearing behind one of the mirrors. Slowly, Regina moves toward the mirror, hand gripping the frame tightly as she peers behind it._

_Nothing._

_Nothing, and then the ends of the cloak again, darting out into the center of the circle of mirrors. Again, Regina follows, this time much more quickly, and she’s able to follow the path the cloaked figure takes. Behind the adjacent mirror, back out into the circle’s center, again and again as they weave between the mirrors. Regina comes to a halt once she reaches the shards of glass on the floor again, grabbing hold of one of the mirror frames to catch her breath and combat the sudden dizziness. Circle, the mirrors form a circle, they’ll keep walking the same path, over and over and Regina is afraid and not alone._

_One last breath to steady herself and she moves out from behind the mirror again, feet carrying her across the hall quickly. The cloaked figure is still on the move, approaching closer as it weaves in and out of the mirrors. Regina puts herself just ahead on its path, positioning herself between two of the mirrors. She inhales sharply as the figure rounds the corner, ready to grab them or defend herself if need be, but the figure stops dead just as its face comes into view._

_“Emma?” Regina ventures, brow knitting in confusion. “You’re… alive. I don’t -- what are you doing in here?”_

_Emma smiles, eyes narrowed and dark, and she takes a step back. “Follow me,” she says, and then she disappears around the corner again, back the way she came. Regina stumbles forward, drawn to her, and emerges out into the center of the circle. Emma stands in front of the mirror on the far side of the hall, and even though Regina still can’t see her own reflection, the mirror is not empty._

_That’s a door._

_Specifically, that’s the door to the enchanted wardrobe that had taken Emma from the Enchanted Forest before the first curse. “Follow me,” Emma beckons again, and this time she turns, cloak fluttering gracefully behind her she she runs toward the mirror. Instinctively, Regina runs after her, reaching out a hand to try and stop Emma before she meets glass. But Emma jumps up the half-step into the mirror and disappears into the wardrobe, and Regina is left facing a void._

_She hesitates, here, unsure what to do. The Netherworld is a very real place, that much she’s sure of, but the fact that she keeps coming back to the Hall of Mirrors leads her to believe that she’s bound to it, trapped without a way out. It’s her soul that exists in here, her soul that travels home and allows her to wake in Storybrooke. Her hands have pressed against glass and met resistance, but they’ve also sunken into the mirrors. She has seen both the living and the dead, and Rumplestiltskin had stepped out of a mirror._

_If Regina follows Emma into the wardrobe, she’s not entirely sure she’ll be able to find her way back._

_Her heart beats in her chest, and Regina has faith._

_She takes a step forward._

_Into the looking glass, through the wardrobe door, another step forward, and --_

_She’s back in the Hall of Mirrors._

_Bewildered, Regina turns on the spot, surveying the circle of mirrors around her. The mirror she’s just come out of is blank as ever, devoid of reflection, and Emma is nowhere to be found. “Emma?” Regina calls out tentatively, voice ringing out in the empty hall._

_“Follow me,” again, and Regina turns in the direction of her voice, back toward the mirror containing the wardrobe. Emma's cloak is torn and tattered, now, and she steps backward into the mirror, hovering in the wardrobe entrance. Her hands grip the edges of the mirror like she’s trying not to fall in, and there is darkness in her smile. “Follow me, end up like me,” she says, almost like a song, and then she vanishes into the wardrobe again._

_Regina is much more quick to follow, this time, perplexed and longing for logic. She is better, with Emma, not alone and unafraid and anchored. So she follows and falls and finds herself hurtling through a vortex of glass and wood before she’s back in the Hall of Mirrors. Again, she stops in the middle of the hall, realization dawning on her._

_It’s an infinite loop._

_Emma isn’t going anywhere._

_In the mirror, the wardrobe disappears._

_Alone again, Regina swallows around her trepidation and flexes her fingers. “Emma,” she says again. “Emma, where you go, I can’t follow.”_

_“Follow me,” Emma’s voice repeats as a reply, and before Regina can even so much as think about being exasperated by the redundancy, a flash of magic and dust flies by her and collides with one of the mirrors to her right. Her eyes involuntarily follow the trail it leaves behind, and the sight that greets her in the mirror grips her soul in an iron vice._

_There, through the door of a too-familiar tavern, sits the man with the lion tattoo, facing away from her and illuminated by light._

_Robin._

_Breathing growing shallow, Regina turns toward the mirror with the tavern entrance, her hands shaking as she reaches out for Robin. She needs him, wants him, but she can’t have this version of him, not without rewriting their story. These are doors to a past that never was but could have been, and faced with hope, Regina finds herself unable to move toward it._

_“You won’t let him in,” Emma says, voice suddenly right next to her._

_Startled, Regina drops her hand but stays rooted to the spot, doesn’t tear her gaze away from Robin to look at Emma. And it’s here, Emma means here, in the Hall of Mirrors, and Regina shakes her head. “I’m trying to protect him,” she explains. “Him and Henry both.”_

_“You’ve failed pretty spectacularly at that so far,” Emma remarks, and it’s the most like her that she’s sounded since this began that Regina could almost laugh in relief._

_Almost._

_“I don’t need to bring him in here,” Regina insists, fingers flexing anxiously again, and still she cannot bring herself to look away from him. “He’ll be waiting for me when I wake.”_

_“For how long?” Emma prompts._

_Regina finally looks over at her at that, brow wrinkling in confusion again as she notes the dirt streaked across Emma’s face. “Meaning what?”_

_“Look around you, Regina,” Emma says, gesturing at the hall around them. “You’re alone in here. You won’t let anyone else in. Keep the doors locked, Regina, and pretty soon you won’t have to run away anymore. There won’t be anyone left to come after you.”_

_Regina swallows hard and sets her jaw, ready to defend herself again, to profess the things she knows to be true -- that Robin loves her, that he isn’t going anywhere, that he’ll be there to anchor her when she wakes. And then the implication tucked away in Emma’s words stands out, bright and bold between the lines, and Regina loses her resolve. “There’s a door?”_

_Emma’s grin grows and it is dark, dark, dark. “There are only doors,” she says, moving so close to Regina’s face that she causes Regina to flinch and duck away. Regina straightens up and tries to breathe more evenly, feeling a little dizzy as she tries to find a spot to focus on. A door comes into view in one of the mirrors as her vision clears. This one is unfamiliar, but it doesn’t hold her attention for long. There’s another door in the adjacent mirror, and another one next to that, all around the circle and it’s like being in Jefferson’s hat, the realms at her fingertips and the possibilities endless. Regina spins on the spot, again and again as she searches for something familiar, searches for a way out and grows dizzier by the second --_

_Emma’s hand encloses around her arm, bringing Regina to a halt, and there are burns on Emma’s arms, blistered and gnarled. “We know who you are, Regina,” Emma says, and it echoes with the voices of many, deep and muddled. Regina cannot see past the dark mania in Emma’s eyes. “We know who you are -- and who you always will be.” Heart practically in her throat, Regina squeezes her eyes shut and pulls her arm out of Emma’s grasp, gasping. This isn’t Emma, not really, and the shadows she casts are accusations and misconceptions long forgotten and disproven. That’s not who Regina is, not any more, and she’s not alone, not with Emma, the real Emma who went ashen at the thought of losing her._

_“Follow me!” Emma commands, and Regina’s so startled by the ferocity in Emma’s voice that she can’t help but turn toward it, eyes searching. She finds Emma standing next to the mirror with the tavern door, and ache weighs down Regina’s chest when she sees the tavern door shut. The hood of Emma’s cloak falls away, lets her hair flow wild and unkempt and tangled. “End up like me,” Emma says, a final declaration, and with one last smile, she reaches out her hands and pushes the mirror hard._

_The mirror starts to fall to the floor, and light magic erupts from Regina’s hands._

* * * * *

Regina wakes up gasping.

That’s the first thing she registers, anyway, one of the only things, and she doesn’t have time to catch her breath and calm down before she feels a flash of searing pain shoot up her arms and out of her hands. She blinks her eyes open and gasps again, struggling to breathe properly as she sits up the rest of the way and looks down at her hands. Another jolt of pain and she convulses, horrified when she sees some form of electric magic spark up out of her fingers.

“Regina,” a voice says next to her, and it’s Robin, low and concerned and reaching for her with his hands.

“ _Don’t_ ,” she gasps, yanking her hands away as they spark again. She can barely speak, can hardly breathe and can’t think much beyond how much it hurts, he’ll get hurt if he touches her. A surge of sparks this time, wild and uncontrolled and lasting much longer, and Regina grits her teeth against the pain, unable to suppress a whimper. Her body feels the phantom pain of a torture long forgotten, bound to a table for two days without magic at the mercy of Greg Mendell.

“Regina,” Robin prompts again, shifting a little on the bed to get a better look at her.

“Don’t,” she begs again, begs where she wouldn’t under torture. “I can’t -- I can’t control it,” she explains, gasping high and sharp as pain like lightning shoots through her again, sparks stinging her skin. She can barely form coherent thoughts, but she knows enough to know she’s awake, knows enough to know she’s back in Storybrooke. Her magic shouldn’t work here, not if it’s still mending, and the only time she’d ever been unable to successfully control her magic was when she was still learning how to use it. It’s never quite manifested like this before, not in this form, not in this element, not this _raw_ and powerful and uninhibited, and _fuck_ , this hurts.

What is _happening_ to her?

“Regina,” Robin tries again, soft and gentle and situated so he can look at her properly. “Regina, let me help you, please.”

Regina swallows and shakes, muscles tensing as the magic surges up and out of her again. There is pleading in her eyes and her heart is pounding and somehow still beating and Robin is _here_. “I don’t -- I don’t want to hurt you,” she grits out, voice shaking as the electric magic finds its way into her throat.

“You won’t,” he assures her, slowly shifting closer. “I trust you. You’re not going to hurt me, Regina. You have to believe that.” He holds his hands out in silent offering, clearly waiting for her to take them. It’s her choice -- always her choice, always him. She loves him and wants him and needs him and he is the only anchor she has right now, ready and reassuring and rock solid. And he believes -- he has his unwavering faith, just like he always has. Another surge of magic, this one she feels all the way in her bones and she cries out as quietly as she can, fear twisting in her gut. She’s afraid, doesn’t want to hurt him, would do anything not to hurt him, and Regina is _Emma_ , trying so hard not to hurt Henry that she ended up hurting him anyway, creating wounds that Regina had to heal.

“Mom?” a voice whispers, carrying from the hall outside of the bedroom, and it’s _Henry_.

Regina refuses to bring him into this more than she already has.

One last spark from her fingertips and Regina reaches for Robin’s hands.

She believes.

And just like that, it’s over.

Barely a moment passes between them -- Robin’s smile withheld until he’s certain that the spontaneous sparking has stopped, Regina finally able to catch her breath -- before the bedroom door clicks open. “Mom?” Henry ventures again.

Three deep breaths to steady herself, a deliberate beat to meet Robin’s eyes and make sure she’s anchored, and then Regina turns around to face her son, hands still clinging tightly to Robin’s. “Henry,” she acknowledges, unable to help sounding a little breathless. “What --” She stops, eyes narrowing in on the object in his hand. “What are you doing with a baseball bat?”

“I heard glass shattering,” Henry explains, taking a step toward the bed. “I thought someone might be trying to break into the house. I went to check on Roland first before I came here.”

Potential panic twists in Regina’s gut at the thought, and she feels the electric energy creep up her arms again. It dies out around her wrists, though, not quite manifesting the way it was a moment or two ago, when Robin speaks up. “Um, no,” Robin reassures them, clearing his throat a little. “We just… had a little accident with the mirror,” he explains, nodding toward the far corner of the room.

Regina and Henry both follow Robin’s gaze to where the tall, full-size standing mirror normally occupies the corner. Regina blinks in surprise at the sight of it, glass shattered and floor littered with broken pieces. She barely manages to school her features into something slightly more neutral when Henry turns his gaze back toward her, eyes narrowed in what she knows is suspicion. She is composed enough for this, at least, enough to put her son first and quell his concerns and worries. “We’ll clean it up,” she says before Henry can speak. “Go back to sleep, Henry. You have school in the morning.”

Henry studies her hard for a long moment, gaze drifting to Robin briefly, but he eventually sighs and shakes his head. “I can’t decide if this is better or worse than the other night,” he mutters, closing the distance between them and leaning down to drop a kiss to her cheek.

“ _Bed_ , Henry,” she says firmly before returning the kiss. He waves a hand at her dismissively as he shuffles out of their room and down the hall to his own, mumbling all the way.

Regina exhales heavily and closes her eyes. She’s unhappy that her trips to the Hall of Mirrors keep prompting Henry’s potential involvement, but she finds herself grateful for the distraction tonight. Her body has mostly calmed, muscles less tense and trembling subsided. She’s breathing easier, now, and the magic that had seared through her and sparked out of her moments ago seems gone, now. Her blood runs quiet and cold, and with Robin’s hands in hers, she feels anchored and safe.

"Did I do that?" she prompts, still not opening her eyes. "The mirror -- did I break it in my sleep?"

Robin is quiet for a long moment before he answers. "I think so, yes," he admits, careful and hesitant. "I was barely awake before you were, but when you first sat up, that magic came out of your hands and went straight for the mirror."

Regina swallows hard. She had tried to save him, in the Hall of Mirrors, had tried to prevent more glass from shattering. But her magic wasn't what she thought it was, wild and uninhibited, and now it's transcending between realms, if she can even call the Netherworld that. Now, she is at risk of actively hurting the people she loves, and even in her calm, Regina is terrified. She opens her eyes and turns to look at Robin, now, but there is pain in his eyes that strikes her in her soul.

She is awake, and Robin is here.

There’s something more, there, behind the obvious pain in his eyes, curiosity and confusion and concern. He looks _lost_ , and Regina finds herself without direction even as they are anchored together. She doesn’t -- she doesn’t know how to explain this to him, doesn’t _want_ to explain it to him. She thinks it will just do more harm than good, in the end, prompting more questions and providing no solutions. She needs him here, like this, waiting for her when she wakes. Pulling him into the infinite loops she’s found herself stuck in will only set them both adrift. Still, he studies her now, clearly searching for answers, and Regina can’t help but shift uncomfortably under his scrutiny.

She doesn’t miss the way his shoulders sag, doesn’t miss the way his eyes cloud as he leans in close to her. “Stay here,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll, um -- I’ll fetch the broom and dustpan from downstairs to clean up the glass.”

And then his hands are gone, and Regina is left to watch him leave.

In the quiet, the voices come back to her, and she remembers. She remembers Emma, in the Hall of Mirrors, cryptic and cynical and cautious. She remembers the warning -- _don’t lock him out; let him in_. She remembers Mulan, yesterday, accommodating and affectionate and advising. She remembers the admonishment -- _you’re in this together_ \-- and the prompting about the curse that had gotten her into this predicament in the first place. _Ask him about what happened to him_ , Mulan had suggested, and in spite of her current solitude, Regina remembers one very important thing.

She is not alone in this.

She thinks of the glimpse into the tavern in the Hall of Mirrors -- of a life she never had and the one she has now -- and her eyes fall to the nightstand drawer that safely stores page twenty-three. She is as much a part of his story as he is a part of hers, and they can’t bring their story to a close without all of the pieces.

Tomorrow, she’ll ask.

Tomorrow.

* * * * *

On Tuesday, the horizon is a muddled line of dark, gray clouds, the mark of an impending storm rolling in. Regina had enough sense to pack an umbrella this morning, but she hadn’t brought it with her to lunch, and she’s hoping she won’t need it before she gets back to the mayor’s office. For now, she’s content to link arms with Robin as they walk out onto the pier after their lunch date.

“This is nice,” he muses, halfway down the pier. “A bit chilly, but still nice.”

Regina’s lips twist into an almost amused smile. “You used to sleep in the woods,” she deadpans.

“Exactly,” he throws back with ease, taking a step or two ahead of her before turning around to face her. “Which means of the two of us, I’m really more of the expert here.” She bites back the rest of the smile, not wanting to give him the satisfaction, but she can tell that he still sees it in her eyes because he _grins_ , bright and wide and god, she has missed that smile lately. “And as the expert,” he continues, taking a step toward her, “I’d say you’re looking a bit peaky. We can’t have that.” He reaches for the scarf tucked tightly around his neck and undoes the simple knot, looping it around the back of her neck instead. It’s a ridiculous gesture -- full of gallantry and not as helpful as a thicker coat might be -- but the scarf is already warm from his heat and it smells like him and she can’t help but smile. “Better?” he murmurs, anchoring his hands in the scarf to keep her close.

“Almost,” she says, sneaking her ungloved hands under his jacket and looping her arms around his waist for warmth. Her breath hitches a little in surprise when he uses his grip on the scarf to pull her flush against him, and before she can even properly meet his eyes, his lips are on hers. Her fingers curl into the material of his shirt as his move up to tangle in her hair and she has _missed_ this. She’s missed the ease with which she can get lost in her anchor, missed the soft, supple glide of his lips against hers. She misses the senseless, selfishness of summer, and she laments the moments they have lost.

She wants to get them back, but for that, she needs the rest of the pieces.

Robin is a little more gentle with his touch when they break apart, fingertips feather-light against her skin as he reaches out to tuck her hair behind her ear. “I mean it, you know,” he adds, still quiet. “This is nice. I feel like we haven’t had time just the two of us in a while, even when the boys are gone.”

Regina tries not to let her smile falter. “Well, then,” she sighs, letting her hands fall to his hips, “I’m afraid I have to disappoint you. I lured you out here under false pretenses.”

Robin’s eyes spark with amusement. “Really?” he laughs. “And what would those be? Does it -- oh, is this about Henry’s birthday?” he guesses. “Is our home to be invaded by a band of teenagers on Thursday?”

Regina inhales sharply at the use of _our home_ but doesn’t comment on it. “No,” she says, unable to keep her own amusement out of her voice. “Thursday is for family, Henry knows that. And it’s a school night. Emma can handle all of the adolescent antics over the weekend.”

Robin _hmm_ s knowingly, hands falling to her waist. “Then why, darling, are we out here when the skies are going to open up on us?”

Regina’s eyes flick to the horizon, chest feeling a little tight when she sees how much closer the dark clouds are growing to the coastline. She’s running out of time, and she wants to -- _needs_ to have this conversation today, while she’s still got her nerve. She takes a deep breath to steady herself and reaches for Robin’s hands, removing them from her waist in order to anchor them together. It’s there that she trains her gaze, on the woven tapestries of their fingers and hands. “I wanted to talk about this summer,” she ventures. “About… the sleeping curse.”

Something is shifting in Robin’s eyes when she looks back up at him, understanding creeping in around the edges. There’s weight there, too, worry and concern and everything he’s been carrying around for the last week ( _more than a week_ , her mind supplies traitorously, because he looked at her this way before, after she’d woken from the curse). But there is also still a spark -- light and love and _hope_ , infuriating and comforting and always present. Robin’s hope is misplaced, now, that much is obvious to her in the way his expression turns a little earnest. “Of course,” he agrees, soft and gentle and prompting and god, he really has no idea what she’s about to ask of him. “Come, sit,” he urges, leading her by the hand to one of the benches closer to the edge of the pier.

She goes with his pull easily, sinking down onto the bench next to him. She’s not sure that sitting will be all that beneficial to him, if she manages to get him talking, but she could be useful, like this. Regina can be his anchor here, if he finds himself too restless and agitated to stay sitting. “I actually wanted to know more about what happened to you,” she admits.

The earnest quality in Robin’s expression starts to fade at that, replaced quickly with a knit brow marked by confusion and concern. “I --” He starts, and then stops, clearly taking the time to think his words through before he speaks again. There’s tension in the lines of his shoulders, and he doesn’t quite meet her eyes when he asks, “Why do you want to know?”

She shifts awkwardly on the uncomfortable bench but doesn’t let go of his hands, determined to see this through. “You hardly talked about it,” Regina points out. “She had you imprisoned in that cell for hours and you hardly said a word about it when we got home. I just… I thought it might help,” she tries, because that, at least, is true. It may have been Mulan’s idea to ask, but this is all Regina -- finding the common threads and figuring out if he’s being affected by what’s happening to her and what she might be able to do to protect him. “I thought it might help me understand… certain things a little better.”

There’s curiosity in his eyes, the same as all the others, burning and prying and dying to get out. But Robin, like the others, tampers it down and keeps his own questions to himself -- for now, at least. It’s his turn to drop his gaze to where their hands are joined, now, his thumb tracing along the back of her hand. “When you… pricked your finger,” he starts, stops, swallows. “When you went under that curse, I could… _feel_ it,” he explains, releasing one of her hands to gesture awkwardly in the air between them.

Regina’s chest tightens, her heart thudding anxiously. “Feel it?” she echoes, voice cracking a little.

Robin runs his free hand through his hair and exhales, sounding frustrated. “I’m not sure quite how to explain it. Something inside of me just sort of… broke,” he says, leaning against the back of the bench. He doesn’t have to say anything else for Regina to understand, and the realization makes her tighten her grip on his hand.

His soul is tethered to hers, which means the chances of him being affected by her trips to the Netherworld are all the more likely.

Regina can hardly breathe at the thought of it, but the questions she wants to ask die in her throat once she gets a better look at his face. He’s… tense, obviously, just as tense as she is, but there’s something different about it. She can see it in the way he won’t quite meet her eyes, the rigid set of his jaw and the anxious flexing of his fingers in her grasp. He looks like he’s biting back words, like there’s more about the situation that’s bothering him that he’s not saying. And that makes her more nervous than before because if _this_ is only the beginning of his story, she can’t imagine what horrors Maleficent put him through.

If this is the easy part, things are only going to get worse.

“What… aren’t you telling me?” she ventures carefully.

Robin closes his eyes and exhales heavily, his grip slackening. He looks _tired_. He’s kept… whatever this is to himself for months at this point, and with the effects of the Netherworld lingering in Regina’s hands, she thinks Robin’s patience may be starting to wear thin. “There was a mirror,” he admits finally, and Regina feels panicked all the way to her _soul_. “Maleficent -- she put a looking glass in my cell. She wanted -- she forced me to --”

“-- to watch,” Regina breathes, hand shaking in Robin’s loose grasp. He opens his eyes and focuses on her hands, breath hitching as they shake and shake. He’s on his feet before she can even think about finding more words for this, his hands gripping the railing at the end of the pier. He hangs his head and exhales heavily, fingers curling tight around the edge of the railing. And Regina is _tethered_ to him, drawn to him -- to home -- like she always has been, and she’s quick to rise and follow. She’s tentative in her movements, unsure and longing, but she reaches out a gentle, still-shaking hand in his direction anyway. “Robin --”

He shrugs away from her touch before she even makes contact, and it stings more than she’s willing to admit. The breaths he’s taking are very deliberately measured and even, and it’s a long few moments before he looks back up at her again. “You won’t let me help you,” he says, and he is _pleading_ with her. “ _Why_ won’t you let me help you?”

Here, Regina falters, hand falling down and away as she leans on her elbow against the pier railing. “That’s… not why I asked you about the sleeping curse.”

“No, of course it’s not,” he says, voice bitter and thick with the onslaught of tears and he’s starting to spiral, why is he starting to spiral? “You asked because you want me to share my pain. You want to know what _happened_ to me,” he says, and he very nearly spits it at her.

“ _Yes_ ,” she says, emphatic and firm and shifting a little closer to him. “I do want to know what happened to you because _you haven’t talked about it_.”

“And you’ve been so forthcoming lately?” he throws back. He releases his hold on the railing and shifts, angling his body toward her. There is incredulity in his expression and pain in his eyes and the thread between them is unraveling, pooling at their feet. “Regina, your soul travels to another realm while you sleep -- a realm I know next to nothing about that causes you to wake up screaming and lose control of your magic -- and you _refuse_ to talk to me about it.”

Regina curls her fingers into fists to try and control the shaking. “That’s different,” she argues, still firm but softening a little around the edges. “I’m trying to do the right thing.”

“Like you did with Henry?” he says, and it’s the lowest blow yet, cutting her off at the knees. He’s breathing a little harder, now, more erratic, and there is so much _pain_ in Robin’s eyes that Regina can’t bring herself to look away from him, now. “Did you forget, Regina, that watching you take that curse for Henry is not the first time I’ve been forced to stand by and watch you face a sleeping curse?”

The memory -- losing Henry to a curse she had only just managed to subdue, the very real prospect of never seeing _her son_ again weighing heavily on her every action -- twists her chest like a knife, sharp and painful. She’d lost _everything_ \-- _thought_ she’d lost everything, grasping desperately at straws to get rid of the aching void that had taken up residence in the space where Henry was in her heart. She’d reached for Robin, back then, reached for him and pushed him away just like she’s doing now and _pretty soon you won’t have to run away anymore, there won’t be anyone left to come after you_. She swallows thickly now, suddenly breathless, and she is closer to tears now than she was even a moment ago. “That was different,” she counters again, and it’s her turn to grip the edge of the railing hard in an effort not to spiral.

Her hands itch for the dagger.

“Was it?” Robin prompts, pushing a little further. “Because from where I was standing, it was all too familiar. The attempt in the Enchanted Forest, Shattered Sight this spring, Maleficent forcing your hand this summer -- they all felt the same to me, Regina.”

Regina blinks rapidly and shakes her head, nose wrinkling in confusion and she is _blindsided_. “What does -- Shattered Sight doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

“Yes,” Robin laughs bitterly, and there is heat and anger behind his words, “it does. It was just the same as the others -- you giving up on yourself and refusing to let me help and locking yourself away where no one can get to you --”

“You _know_ why I did that,” she reminds him thinly.

“Yes, because you were afraid of hurting someone,” he says, voice pitching a little louder as he pushes himself away from the railing, and she finds herself suddenly grateful that they’re alone out here today. “Because you think that the darkest version of yourself is someone who would kill the people you love, but I -- _I_ know better, Regina. If you’d been locked in your vault long enough with your own thoughts, that darkness would’ve turned against you. Because you at your darkest, Regina, isn’t someone who would take the lives of those you love -- it’s someone who would take your own, instead.”

Thunder claps offshore, and Regina starts to unravel.

She cannot move.

She cannot _breathe_.

She’s unsteady on her feet, knees shaking and knocking against one another, and she’s forced to grip the railing with both hands, now, facing out onto the water. Something twists and coils in her gut, a phantom piercing ache that makes her feel too-young again. Her body is still recovering and her magic isn’t working right and _she’s just miscarried again and Leopold is disappointed and Rumplestiltskin is angry and Regina has no way out_ and there are tears blurring her vision. “Stop,” she gasps, quiet and barely there.

Robin either doesn’t hear or chooses to ignore her, because she can see him pacing in his own panic in her peripheral vision, a blur of love and anger and worry as he runs his fingers through his hair. “You have… _such_ a casual disregard for your own life, Regina,” he rants, louder still and she’s not sure he’s even really _looking_ at her any more. “And you haven’t the faintest idea how legitimately _terrifying_ that is for me,” he admits, and he is begging, _pleading_ with her between the lines not to do something like it again.

But Regina is too far gone, now, too lost in the way her hands curl around the railing _of the balcony, she has no way out, trapped in a cage and queen of nothing and_ she bangs her hands against the railing hard, _again_ and again and _no wonder you jumped_. “ _Please_ ,” she chokes out, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to force herself to stay in the present as she bangs her hands against the railing again. “Stop it.”

But Robin doesn’t stop and this -- this is what Regina had asked for, disclosure and honesty _share my pain_ and she’s lost her anchor and they are adrift and their common thread is spiraling, spiraling, spiraling. "You treat your life so callously, as if no one would miss you if you were gone,” he bites out, voice raw and hoarse and full of pain. Pain, there’d been so much pain in his eyes when he’d woken her from the curse and _did you really think no one would miss you_. Regina opens her eyes and she is awake, _she wasn’t supposed to wake up, she’d locked him out and he’d found a way to let himself out, let himself in, trapped in the hall of mirrors when she’d been trying to protect him_. “You are so _reckless_ with yourself,” he accuses, and his voice is too loud and he’s closer to tears than ever. “You never stop to think what it would be like for those of us left behind, for Henry or for Roland or--" Robin’s words die out, here, but Regina hears what he leaves unspoken.

 _Or me_.

Regina would walk through _fire_ for her family if she could, and the ache in her gut twists and tightens and _snaps_.

“ _Enough_!” she barks, whirling on the spot to face him again. Her hands _fly_ through the air, and the electric magic that surges and sparks out of them splinters the wooden floor of the pier, effectively carving a jagged line between them.

Regina’s blood runs cold, and everything inside of her _hurts_. She’s quick to clutch at her abdomen, quick to take a step back and look down at one of her hands. Robin has gone _quiet_ and Regina cannot catch her breath and she is _afraid_ of what she doesn’t understand.

She doesn’t understand any of this at _all_.

Her hands are shaking again -- her whole _body_ is shaking, really -- but it’s her face that Robin seeks out. His hands reach out to cradle her head in his hands, his movements quick and deliberate and assured. “Hey,” he prompts gently. “Eyes on me, okay? Deep breath. You’re not hurting me.” Regina doesn’t spare a second thought for it and wraps her hands around his wrists in an effort to anchor herself, suddenly dizzy beyond belief. “Come here,” he murmurs, taking her hands in his. “Let’s -- come sit down again.”

Still unsteady on her feet, Regina lets him lead her back to the bench, half-stumbling along the way. She sinks down too-hard onto the fragile, wooden bench, knees knocking against Robin’s as he scoots in closer to her. She keeps one hand latched onto his, desperate for an anchor, but she lets her other find his thigh and grips it tight. He pulls her a little more against him, arm looped around her shoulders so she can tuck her face against his neck. He doesn’t really speak while she comes down from her outburst, just murmurs soothingly into her ear and runs his fingers along the length of her arm. It takes her several minutes to do anything that resembles normal breathing again, even more before she can manage to get the tremors down to a slight tremble. When she does manage to find and use her voice again, it’s rough and scratchy and bearing the marks of the recently manifested magic. “This isn’t what I thought my happy ending would look like,” she ventures.

“No?” Robin mumbles, pressing his lips to her forehead. “What were you envisioning?”

“I don’t know,” Regina sighs, clearing her throat a little and narrowing her eyes. “Rainbows? Unicorn stickers?”

Robin just barely manages to emit something that sounds like a laugh. “I’m afraid not,” he says. “Real relationships aren’t quite that clean and colorful. Doesn’t mean they’re not worth it.”

Regina closes her eyes and turns into him, tears brimming on her lashes. “I’m sorry,” she breathes.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he assures her. “I know you didn’t mean to do it. I know you can’t control it. And like I said, you didn’t hurt me.”

“No, that’s not… what I meant,” she says, taking a second to swallow around her ache. “I’m sorry about… everything. All of it. I just -- I don’t know how to explain something I don’t understand myself.”

A beat, and then Robin’s fingers are hooking under her chin to force eye contact. She’s startled when she sees the tracks of tears on his cheeks, a stain of sorrow. “And I need you to understand,” he implores, and his voice is the most gentle it’s been all day, “that there are nights I go to sleep wondering if you’re still going to be there when I wake up in the morning.”

Regina shifts, sitting up a little more so she can rest their foreheads against one another. “I need you to be patient with me, _please_ ,” she says, a simple request that she knows is going to be all too difficult to fulfill. “I need more time to figure this out before I can give you what you’re asking. And until then, I _need_ you here with me,” she implores. “Knowing that you’re here when I wake up is one of the only things I can count on right now.”

She can see his jaw working again -- he’s clearly frustrated and wanting to refuse to drop the subject -- but his answer takes her by surprise. “I’ll be here,” he promises, clutching her hand a little tighter and pulling away just enough to look at her properly. “Will you?”

“As long as I’m able,” she says, and it is every bit the vow she means it as.

* * * * *


	4. October 9, 2013 - October 10, 2013

_There’s a new addition to the Hall of Mirrors._

_In the center of the circle of mirrors is now a still, small cradle._

_Regina is horrified to the point of being unable to move, hand clinging tightly to one of the poles of a mirror stand. She’s been alone in here so far -- at least when she’s first arrived. The sight of the cradle makes her nervous because it means things are changing, but it also means that someone out there -- in some realm -- is on the offensive._

_Who would do this to an innocent?_

_But the instinct to check on the child -- to comfort and to mother -- is stronger than her fear, so it’s with tentative steps that Regina moves away from the mirrors and approaches the cradle in the center._

_There is no child in the cradle, but it is not empty._

_Her steps slow as she closes in on the cradle, brow knitting in confusion at the sight of four pristine apples red as blood resting inside. She stops as she comes up beside it, hesitating as she glances around the hall for a sign of a presence beyond her own. But there is nothing -- no sound, no movement, no reflections or tricks of light. Regina is, as always, alone in here. No one gets in or out. Slowly, Regina sinks to her knees next to the cradle and carefully reaches a hand inside to retrieve an apple. There’s really nothing extraordinary or odd about it, as far as she can tell, but she also knows all too well that appearances can be deceiving._

_Evil doesn't always look evil._

_Her hands itch with the aching familiarity of darkness._

_“They’re rotten, you know.”_

_Startled, Regina drops the apple back into the cradle and glances up in the direction of the voice. If she thought she was horrified before, that is nothing compared to this. Her heart is in her throat, seized and stuttering and suffocating, and it is all she can do to swallow around her ache and fear in order to speak. “Henry?” A deep, gasping breath to force air into her lungs, and for a moment, she is genuinely glad to see her son. “Henry,” she says again, unable to fight back a smile as she reaches for his hand. “You’re --” And then she stops, smile faltering as she looks at where their hands are joined. His hand is unusually cold and limp in her grasp, unresponsive to her touch, and when she looks back up into his eyes, she finds they’re missing their usual warmth. “You’re not really here,” she realizes. “You moved on.”_

_Henry’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Did I?”_

_Regina’s grip on Henry’s hand slackens. Of those she’s seen in the Hall of Mirrors, Henry is the only one still alive who has been under a sleeping curse like she has. She surveys him carefully, doubt and something that feels a lot like guilt creeping in around the edges, but she doesn’t let go of his hand. “You went below,” she says, trying to convince herself more than him as she presses the palm of her free hand against the warm, glass floor. “You got burned.”_

_“But I’ve been here,” Henry reminds her, and Regina’s hands curl away from glass. “I’ve been in here because of you.”_

_And guilt is darkness, now, casting shadows into her heart as she lets go of Henry’s hand. It doesn’t make sense that he would return to the Hall of Mirrors just because she’s there. Henry -- real Henry -- doesn’t know that her soul has been traveling back to the Hall of Mirrors instead of the Red Room like it’s supposed to. And this -- this isn’t like him, not now, not after everything they’ve been through. This version of Henry is not her Henry, not her son, not her little prince who believed in her when no one else would. This is darkness, and Regina will not give into the temptation of her past. She deliberately trains her eyes back on the apples in the cradle and sucks in a breath. “You are not my son.”_

_“No,” Henry says, “I’m not. And you are not my real mom.”_

_Regina sets her jaw and squeezes her eyes shut._

_This isn’t real._

_“You pushed me away,” he continues. “Just like you’re doing now.” A heavy breath to steady herself, palms flat against her thighs. She won’t give into this -- this sick, demented form of psychological torture in a realm where her soul is trapped and nothing else exists. “You pushed me away to the point where I had to go find my real mom, and then you tried to poison us both. You spent months manipulating me. You made me think I was going crazy.”_

_It’s like a knife in her chest, that, and she can’t help the harsh breath that escapes her. This is her greatest regret, come back to haunt her, and it’s not real, it’s not, she just needs to wake up, wake up, wake up._

_“And the worst part,” Henry says, sounding so much like his actual self that Regina opens her eyes and almost looks at him. “The worst part is that you didn’t care. All you cared about was the curse. All you cared about was you, because that’s what you always do. You’re always selfish. You always put yourself first.”_

_“That’s not true,” she bites out emphatically, snapping her head up to look at him. “I constantly put you first, Henry. I went to Gold for help when you were getting burned in the Red Room. I gave you up to counter Pan’s curse. I let you go with David when the first curse broke because I didn’t want to force you to be with me. I trusted him with you at the st -- stables, I -- I --”_

_“I, I, I,” Henry says with a roll of his eyes, and it’s almost like a song._

_“We shared True Love’s Kiss,” she continues, bordering on hysterical and trying to ignore him. “I -- I took a sleeping curse to keep you safe. Henry, the only reason I’m even in here is because of you!” She regrets the words as soon as they leave her mouth because that’s not what she meant, not at all, but in the end, it doesn’t matter._

_Henry grins, and it is the darkest thing Regina has ever seen._

_There are flames beneath Regina’s feet, and this, she thinks, must be what hell feels like._

_Guilt and regret consume her and she is dark, dark, dark, unable to see straight or think clearly or breathe properly at all. She shrinks away from him, from this… thing that is not her son, glancing around the hall wildly in a desperate attempt to get out. Because that’s what she needs -- to get out. She realizes that now. It’s not just a matter of waking up or finding ways to cope or survive. She won’t survive at all if darkness keeps trying to reclaim her heart and extinguish her light again. She has to get out before she loses her resilience, before her magic spirals completely out of control and she’s adrift and apart from anchors. But there is nothing, nothing in the Hall of Mirrors that will enable her to get out of here, all of the doors are gone and there is fire beneath her feet and --_

_And that’s when she notices it -- the jagged crack along the glass floor just on the other side of the cradle. It’s not unlike the line her magic had drawn on the pier -- sharp and splintering -- but Regina doesn’t care to dwell on it right now. If the floor is cracked, it can be broken open, and then she can get out of here. Again, she glances around the hall, searching for something to use to help her destroy the floor. Still, there is nothing, nothing, just a circle of looking glass and flames and --_

_The torches._

_The torches are sharp and pointed at the bottoms, and Regina is on her feet and moving toward the nearest one before she can second guess herself. She can’t afford to second guess herself, not now, not when she’s alone in here and darkness is impersonating her son. Henry -- real Henry -- believes in her even when she doesn’t believe in herself. She has to believe in herself, now, has to have hope -- infernal, infuriating hope that using these torches as tools will get her out of here. The torch handle is awkward and too-large in her hands, difficult to grip properly. She can’t extinguish the flames, either, and while there is nothing about this that is exactly safe, this is a risk she is willing -- has to -- take._

_So Regina falls to her knees again at the site of the crack in the floor, deliberately ignoring not-Henry’s presence as she adjusts the torch in her hands. She’s careful, at first, calculated as she positions and aims the tip of the torch over the center of the crack in the floor. She doesn’t quite use all of her force as she brings it down against the floor -- she’s not even sure she could, actually -- and tries not to be disappointed when the impact has no effect. So she tries again, this time with a little more force, but the impact is only marginally better. Again, and this time she hears a definitive crack. Her eyes light up, hope filling her lungs as she watches the crack spread a little farther along the floor. Again, a little harder, a little farther. Again, the hardest yet, and fractals sprawl out from the center crack, the potential pyriscence a pretty picture before her._

_Again, and again, harder and harder and the progress comes to a halt, the floor unyielding to her ministrations. The hope in her lungs is extinguished, spiraling up like smoke and she tries harder, harder, her movements maniacal and erratic as she attacks the glass. Still, nothing, no more give, and with one last particularly hard thrust, the torch slips out of her hands and knocks the cradle over, the apples spilling out onto the floor. Breathless, Regina falls forward and rests her weight on her palms, arms shaking and struggling to support her weight after her efforts._

_She can sense Henry kneel in front of her, positioning himself between her and the fallen cradle. His voice is almost oddly gentle when he asks, “What makes you think you can do this?”_

_Exhausted and desperate, Regina lifts her head to meet his eyes, to ask questions she knows she won’t get answers to, to try and understand why this is happening. But the questions die in her throat once she looks at him again, because this -- this could be her Henry, wrapped up in his scarf, eyes full of concern. She sits up the rest of the way and reaches for his hand again, bolstered when she notices how warm it is. “Henry,” she breathes, unable to keep her relief out of her voice. She doesn’t want him here, has tried so hard not to bring him into this. She’s not even sure if this is really him, but if it is, then this Henry is far more likely to help her than the other. He’ll help her wake up or get out or both. “Henry, I need -- I need help,” she chokes out, barely holding back tears. “Please, I have to -- I need to wake up. I need to get out. I can’t get out.” She reaches for his scarf, in need of an anchor, but she recoils once she catches sight of her hands._

_Her hands are stained with darkness._

_Jarred, Regina glances around the hall again, gaze eventually settling on where the apples have spilled out onto the floor. Henry -- the first Henry -- had been right. The apples are rotten, wrinkled and black and bleeding something toxic from their cores -- the same substance that’s on her hands._

_This is her burden to bear._

_Shaking, Regina looks back up at Henry, unable to stop herself from crying. She blinks in surprise and rests back on her laurels when she manages to make him out through her blurred vision. He’s… changed again, not himself, not her Henry, not any Henry at all. It’s -- it’s his body, his face, but it’s not him. The scarf is gone, and in its absence, Regina notices the shirt he’s wearing. There’s something familiar about it, old world and too grown for him, but it’s not until she notices the stain along the front near his heart that the memory comes back to her -- love bleeding out on a nursery floor and a feeling of victory in her veins._

_David._

_This is David’s shirt -- the one he’d worn when Emma had been born. It’s what he’d been wearing when he’d sent Emma through the wardrobe, what he’d been wearing when her black knights had run him through with swords, what he’d been wearing when the curse had finally consumed them. His shirt had been stained with blood during the first curse; he’d lost his heart during the second, left with only half a heart stained with darkness. David’s heart is not his own and Henry -- Henry had nearly lost his life sacrificing his heart because he believed, believed, believed._

_Light flashes in the hall, white and bright and blinding, and Regina recoils with it, shielding her eyes with her arm. Another flash, the distant echoing of thunder and an imminent storm flooding her ears and that -- that is reality. This isn’t -- this is real but she’s asleep, out there. She can do this, can get out of here. All she has to do is wake up, wake up, wake up. She lowers her arm and closes her eyes, trying to control her trembling and breathe a little easier._

_She tries to believe._

_She fails when Henry speaks again._

_“Mom.”_

_It’s the first time he’s said it in here and her reaction to it is instinctual, easy and unaffected and maternal to a fault. Her eyes fly open, searching for him, and the panic she sees in his eyes matches her own. The enchanted wardrobe is back in the far mirror again, gnarled and weathered and illuminated by lightning, and although Henry isn’t facing it, Regina can tell he’s afraid of it. She cannot speak, cannot find her voice to warn him or call him to her. And the storm makes its presence known, wind whipping through the hall in full, gusting gales and pushing Henry closer, closer to the mirror._

_“Mom,” he says again, and he is screaming at her, fighting to be heard over the storm. “Don’t --”_

_“Don’t what?” she calls after him, clutching the edge of the cradle in an effort to find purchase against the wind around them._

_“Don’t make the same mistake again,” Henry warns, and without another word, he falls back into the mirror and through the wardrobe and disappears from sight._

_Regina is left screaming after him, and lightning erupts from her hands._

* * * * *

Snow wakes up to a clattering _thud_.

Blearily, she blinks her eyes open, unsure if she’d actually heard something or not. It’s still dark -- it must still be the middle of the night -- and she can hear the rain pouring in heavy sheets outside of the bedroom window. It’s quiet for a few seconds before she hears it again -- a dull _thunk_ this time, accompanied by what sounds like a bunch of objects falling to the floor. Confused, she props herself up on an elbow and looks across the loft, eyes narrowing to try and discern something in the dark. Another _thud_ , this one much heavier, and it’s only then that Snow realizes that the noises are coming from the bathroom.

Someone is in their home.

Suddenly wide awake and heart hammering in her chest, Snow reaches back a hand to reach for her husband. “David,” she murmurs, jostling his arm. “David, wake up.”

He’s slow to wake, groaning softly as he shifts behind her. “What is it?”

“I think someone’s in the apartment,” she whispers, sitting up the rest of the way.

Beside her, David props himself up on an elbow and rubs the sleep out of his eyes. “What are you --” He’s cut off by the sound of another soft _thud_ from the bathroom, this time accompanied by a faint buzzing sound. That’s all it takes for David to join her in being fully awake, and his hand is gentle on her arm as he sits up and makes to get out of bed. “Stay here,” he instructs quietly, reaching for the baseball bat propped up near his side of the bed.

Snow doesn’t, of course, because it’s a _stupid_ idea for a lot of reasons. She’s perfectly capable of defending herself, and walking into the unknown is at least marginally safer if they do it together. Mostly, though, she wants to check on her son to make sure he’s still asleep in his cradle and unharmed. So she follows David out of bed and out into the front of the loft, letting him take the lead as they cautiously approach the bathroom. She falls behind, briefly, to run her fingers along Neal’s cheek as she passes by his cradle, but she doesn’t linger long.

Whoever -- or whatever -- is in the bathroom makes the same odd buzzing sound again, and this time it’s accompanied by a flash of light visible through the crack in the door. They both pause, at that, David glancing over his shoulder at her with confused and concerned eyes. It’s quiet for a moment before there’s another sound, and this time it’s entirely different.

They can hear someone breathing.

David grips the handle of the bat a little tighter and turns back around. His movements are quicker, now, deliberate and determined. Snow takes a half step toward him before changing course, deciding it might be better if she had her own weapon to back him up with. Her eyes land on one of their frying pans just as David pushes the bathroom door open (idiot, why didn’t he _wait for her_?), but the surprise in his voice is enough to prevent her from reaching for it. “Regina?”

Snow snaps her head over to where David is standing in the bathroom doorway, blocking her view of the inside. He’s still holding the bat in a fairly offensive position, frozen in his surprise. Curious, Snow crosses the kitchen and comes up next to him, peering around his arm to get a better look. The bathroom is a _mess_ , items littering the floor, but there, on the opposite end, on the floor and leaning against the wall with knees tucked against her chest, is Regina.

Snow reaches out a hand and pushes the bat down, forcing David to step aside to let her move into the doorway. “Regina?” Snow prompts, ducking her head a little to try and get Regina to look at her. It doesn’t work. Regina is awake -- or at least she appears to be -- but she won’t look at them, won’t respond to them. Snow’s not even sure Regina knows they’re here or where she’s at. Her gaze is… distracted, vacant, her breathing a little labored and hollow. It’s enough to give Snow pause. “How did she get here?” she murmurs, directing the question at David.

“Her magic must be working again,” he guesses.

As if on cue, the buzzing noise comes back, the bathroom illuminating with light, and Snow is taken aback when she sees Regina’s hands spark with some sort of electric magic. Regina’s eyes squeeze shut as she gasps in what is very clearly _pain_ , and Snow’s reaction is so viscerally instinctive that she doesn’t even think twice about taking a step toward Regina.

David’s hand is on her arm before she can take more than a step into the bathroom. “Wait,” he says. “Mary Margaret, you don’t know what --”

She snaps her head back to look at him, narrowing her eyes slightly. “I’m not just going to leave her like this,” she argues. “She needs help, David.”

David’s hand slackens on her arm, but he doesn’t let go. He hesitates for a few seconds, eyes shifting between them, before he finally lets go. “Just… be careful,” he pleads, eyeing Regina apprehensively as more magic sparks out of her hands and she lets out another pained sound.

Snow’s not sure exactly how careful she can be in a situation like this, but she starts by approaching slowly, taking her time to kneel in front of Regina. Regina’s breathing a little harder, now, eyes trained on her hands like she’s waiting for the magical sparks to manifest again. “Regina?” Snow prompts once more. Still nothing, no eye contact or response of any kind, and Snow can’t help but knit her brow in worry. Tentatively, she reaches out a hand to tap Regina’s arm, but the magic sparks up again before she can get close enough, and it’s only then, as Regina is gasping and curling in on herself that she finally meets Snow’s eyes. “Hey,” Snow says gently, offering her a tentative smile. “It’s just me. I’m just trying to help you.” Again, she reaches out a hand, this time in an attempt to provide comfort.

Regina recoils, panic evident in her eyes. “ _Don’t_ ,” she warns, voice low and thick and god, she sounds so scared. “I can’t -- _ah!_ \-- can’t control it,” she gasps, eyes watering as the magic erupts out of her hands again. But it’s different this time, Snow can tell. She can see how it manifests better from this angle, see it work its way along Regina’s arms before it gets to her hands. Again, and it comes from Regina’s core, causing her to wrap her arms around her middle and snap her eyes shut again. Again, and she’s practically convulsing with it, gasping and gasping and clearly having trouble breathing.

Snow reaches for her without even really thinking about it, all thoughts about being careful replaced by sheer desperation to just _make it stop_. She grabs hold of Regina’s arms and _pulls_ , forcing Regina to unfurl and fall toward her. Regina opens her eyes, clearly startled as Snow tries to right her and pull her closer. It’s instinct -- instinct and nerve and probably stupidity, but somewhere in her, Snow knows this will work. She thinks of Emma -- flashes of hurting David and Henry and being pulled back from the brink by Elsa -- and knows that this can work.

She just has to get Regina to believe.

“Regina, look at me,” she says, clear and even and firm. “Look at me. Listen. It’s going to be okay. You’re not going to hu -- _ah_!” she gasps, voice pitching high as the electric magic coils up Regina’s arms and into Snow’s hands. It feels ten times worse than it looks -- sharp and stabbing and stinging and ow, ow, _ow_. She’s vaguely aware of David’s voice behind her, panicked and calling out for her, but she can’t focus on it. Another surge and it’s Snow who closes her eyes this time, gripping Regina’s hands tight as they both whimper in pain. It’s _awful_ , some of the worst pain Snow has ever felt, and it’s with a pang in her chest that she remembers the last time she felt something like this. She’d had Regina’s tears in her own eyes, back then, had shared the pain of torture, electric and all-consuming. In a lot of ways, this is very much the same -- a shared experience, but Snow is still only getting the residuals.

If Snow is in this much pain, she can only imagine how much Regina must be suffering.

Regina tugs against Snow's grasp, clearly trying to pull her arms away. " _No_ ," Snow bites out emphatically, eyes snapping open. She tightens her hold on Regina's arms and tugs her close again, their faces mere inches apart. "Regina, I won't let you go."

Something finally seems to register in Regina’s eyes at that, familiar and understanding and _grateful_ , and just like that, it's over. Snow finds it a little easier to breathe and Regina’s not convulsing quite so terribly anymore and the magic has ceased its assault. It registers with Snow much more quickly than it does with Regina, who takes almost a full minute to pull back a little and look down at her own body. She hangs her head and exhales in what is very clearly relief, muscles relaxing slightly under Snow's touch.

David crouches down next to them, clearly shaken, but he doesn't move too close, doesn't reach out to touch them. "Regina?" he tries gently.

David’s prompting must register at least somewhat because Regina lifts her head and opens her eyes in apparent response. Snow can see how much she’s struggling to focus, can see the dark circles under her eyes and the way her eyes seem to search for a moment before landing on Snow. It takes a few seconds for recognition to spark in Regina’s eyes, but when it does, it's soon followed by a weighted wetness. " _Snow_ ," Regina breathes, and it's the first time in a very, very long time Snow has heard her true name fall from Regina’s lips. There's something... off about the way Regina says her name, though, like a peculiar greeting. It's as if -- it's as if Regina has forgotten about the last several moments, as if she's only just arrived or awoken. Whatever is going on, Regina is clearly not all here, and --

The Netherworld.

Regina seems lost and disoriented, and Snow _knows_ that Regina has been traveling to the Netherworld since waking from her sleeping curse. They'd talked about it in less than explicit terms mere days ago, and Snow remembers the advice she'd given Regina then: find an anchor. And that -- that is what Snow has been trying to do since she first realized that Regina was in their home, what she had attempted to do by grabbing hold and communicating through touch and _I won't let you go._ Snow has to be Regina's anchor right now because that's all she _can_ do. “Yeah, it’s me,” she affirms gently, relaxing her hold on Regina’s arms. “You’re okay. You’re --”

“I’m sorry,” Regina chokes out, fingers curling around Snow’s wrist. “I’m -- I’m so sorry.”

Snow offers what she hopes is a reassuring smile. “I’m fine,” she placates. “It really didn’t hurt that much. I’m okay --”

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Regina gasps again, tears spilling onto her cheeks. “I’m sorry -- Snow, I’m _so, so_ sorry,” she says, almost hysterical. “ _I’m sorry_ , I --” And then Regina squeezes her eyes shut and _sobs_ , her whole body trembling. Snow barely has a chance to spare a half-glance over at David before Regina is falling against her, face tucked against Snow’s shoulder. Her repetition of _I’m sorry_ comes out muffled and almost unintelligible this time, and it finally occurs to Snow that Regina is clearly apologizing for something else. Snow is at a loss as to what is going on, what this is really about, and the only thing she can think of to do is wrap her arms around Regina and hold her close.

“Sorry for what?” David inquires, sounding just as confused as Snow feels.

“I have no idea,” Snow murmurs, rubbing her hands soothingly along Regina’s back. It takes a few minutes for Regina to stop mumbling apologies against Snow’s shoulder. She’s still shaking, though not as badly as before, and the splash of tears against the skin of Snow’s neck tell her that Regina’s still crying. But she’s a little more quiet, at least, and Snow decides to take advantage of the slight peace to try and get some answers. “Regina?” she ventures, pulling back slightly to try and gauge Regina’s expression. “Regina, why are you here?”

Regina still seems barely aware of what’s going on around her, her eyes heavy and lidded and unfocused. “Henry,” she says, and then there are fresh tears springing into her eyes and she’s burying her face against Snow’s neck again, fingers fisting tightly into the material of Snow’s sleep shirt.

Snow narrows her eyes. “What about Henry?” she asks slowly. “Did something happen to him?”

“ _Me_ ,” Regina chokes out.

Snow’s brow wrinkles in confusion. “Regina, you’re not making any sense. What --”

“Netherworld,” Regina breathes. Snow’s hands still against Regina’s back, her suspicions confirmed. It doesn’t answer a lot of questions -- most of them, actually -- but it’s enough to go on for now, enough to start trying to put the pieces together. But before Snow can really try, Regina is pulling back a little to try and meet Snow’s eyes. “‘m not alone,” she mumbles, so quietly that Snow’s pretty sure she’s the only one who hears, and it takes her a minute to put the two together.

Regina is going to the Netherworld. She’s here because of Henry.

Henry must be going _back_.

Gut twisting with worry, Snow briefly diverts her attention to David. “Call Robin,” she instructs.

David arches his eyebrows. “It’s four in the morning.”

“He won’t care,” Snow insists as Regina curls in close again. “He might already be awake wondering where she is. Call him. Ask him to check in on the boys and make sure they’re okay.”

“The boys?” David echoes. “Why --”

“She’s going to the Netherworld,” Snow explains softly. “I think Henry might be going back.”

It takes a moment for recognition to dawn on David’s features, but the second it does, Snow knows he understands her concern. “The fire,” he concludes, and then he’s up on his feet and out of the bathroom without another word.

Snow exhales heavily and turns her attention back to Regina, who is curled in so close that Snow can’t make out her face at all. Snow tries to shift to get a better look at her, but Regina won’t budge, won’t let go, and Snow is reminded that she is acting as Regina’s anchor right now. And that’s -- it’s okay, it really is. Snow is more than happy to be here for Regina, but the fact that she _has_ to be right now -- the fact that Regina is even here to begin with -- is particularly worrisome. This isn’t… Well, it’s not what Snow had been expecting when she’d told Regina to find an anchor to help cope with the Netherworld. Robin is the one there when Regina wakes, the one Snow _thinks_ Regina would turn to for comfort. And if -- if Henry _is_ going back to the Netherworld, if Henry’s at risk, Regina’s first priority would be to make sure he’s okay. And if that’s the case, then it makes even less sense that Regina would magically teleport herself _here_ upon waking. “I don’t understand,” she murmurs, resting her cheek against Regina’s head.

“Neither do I,” Regina admits, voice low and thick with exhaustion.

It’s an answer that only brings up more questions, but before Snow has a chance to ask any of them, David returns and sits down on the edge of the bathtub, phone still tucked against his ear. “The boys are okay,” he says quietly. “Robin said they’re both still asleep.”

“Did you tell him to --”

“-- to check for burns when Henry wakes up? Yeah,” David assures her. “Robin was already aware that it might happen. Apparently, this has been going on for a week.” Snow wrinkles her nose, even more confused. If Robin _knows_ what’s been going on, then Regina has been reaching out to him, which means he’s probably the anchor Regina needs to pull herself together at a time like this. Regina’s presence here makes even less sense with each new piece of the puzzle the get, the overall picture becoming less clear. “And… you were right,” David adds after half a moment. “Robin was already awake when I called. He’s…”

“Worried,” Snow supplies knowingly, carding her fingers through Regina’s hair.

“Worried is an understatement,” David mutters, adjusting the phone in his hand. “He wants to come and pick her up, take her home.”

Snow tries shifting again, bolstered when Regina moves slightly in her arms. She realizes fairly quickly, though, that Regina’s compliance is not voluntary. Her muscles have relaxed under Snow’s touch, her fingers limp against the material of Snow’s shirt. Her breathing has evened out and her eyes have finally slipped shut and Snow finds that Regina is, amazingly, _asleep_. Snow’s not entirely sure what to do, now, so she takes a minute to study Regina’s sleeping form and think about what might be best for her. Snow knows from her own experiences that falling asleep after an excursion in the Netherworld is exceedingly difficult. The fact that Regina has been able to do it at all is pretty impressive, especially considering that Robin isn’t here with her. Waking Regina now seems senseless. If Robin comes to pick her up now, it’ll mean leaving the boys at home alone for a little while. And _that_ isn’t an option for a lot of reasons, so Snow turns her attention back to David so he can pass her message along to Robin. “Tell him to stay home,” Snow urges. “Regina’s asleep. Waking her now probably isn’t a good idea. Someone needs to stay home with the boys, make sure they get to school on time. We can handle Regina for a few hours.”

David inhales sharply, eyes darting between them. “He’s not going to like it.”

“He’ll put the boys first, just like Regina would,” Snow assures him. “If Regina wakes up before he can make it over here, we’ll have her call him.”

David sighs but adjusts the phone in his hands so he can speak directly into it again. Snow half-listens in on the conversation, her attention split between pacifying Robin and making sure Regina’s still sleeping soundly. She gets snippets of what she assumes are David’s answers to Robin’s questions -- _I know_ and _seems that way_ and _I will, I promise_. By the time David hangs up the phone, he looks far more tired than he did even five or ten minutes ago. “Well, he’s definitely not happy,” David sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“He loves her,” Snow says simply. “He probably just wants to help and he can’t. I’m sure that’s frustrating for him.” David _hmm_ s noncommittally, a clear indicator that he’s exhausted. Snow is reminded, then, of just how much sleep they both lost when they’d been struggling with the Netherworld themselves. The whole situation is painfully, achingly familiar in ways she wishes it weren’t, but where ache starves David, it feeds Snow’s drive. She can do this -- be here, be an anchor for Regina and help her through this -- but she doesn’t have to ask the same of David. “We should all try and sleep for another couple of hours, if we can,” she suggests. “Do you think you can carry her to the couch?”

David nods in silent agreement, setting his phone on the counter before kneeling down next to them again. He’s exceedingly gentle in the way he pries Regina out of Snow’s arms and hoists her into his own. He’s slow to stand up straight again, taking care to make sure his hold on Regina is strong and steady before he carries her into the living room. And again, Snow is reminded of the last time they’d seen Regina like this -- body worn from the power of electricity ripping through her. David had carried her here, back then, had lain her down like he’s doing now. Snow had tended to her while Regina’s magic had mended, much like Snow _thinks_ it’s trying to now. It is all so achingly, _achingly_ familiar, and Snow can feel the gravity of it even with only half of a heart.

Regina is _family_ , and Snow is grateful that she’s still alive.

The next several moments are quiet as they move around the apartment. David retreats to the bathroom to clean up the mess on the floor and retrieve his phone while Snow moves the rocking chair into the living room and drapes a blanket over Regina’s sleeping form. It’s nearing four-thirty by the time Snow sinks into the rocking chair next to the couch, fighting to stay awake. David kneels down next to the chair, after a moment, his hand coming to rest gently on her knee. “Hey,” he says softly. “You okay?”

Snow’s mouth twitches into a sleepy smile. “I think so,” she sighs. “It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with in some form or another before.”

“That doesn’t actually make me any less worried,” he points out dryly. He hesitates for a few seconds, glancing over his shoulder briefly before turning his attention back to her. “I take it you’re sleeping out here for the next couple of hours?”

Snow’s gaze drifts past him to where Regina is curled up on the couch. “Yes,” she affirms. “I want -- I want to be here when she wakes up. I want her to have someone familiar nearby in case she starts to panic again.”

David’s smiling when she looks back at him. “The things we do for loved ones,” he sighs, leaning up to press a kiss to her mouth. “If you need me --”

“I know where to find you,” she quips back, leaning in to kiss him once more before he heads back into the bedroom. Fatigue settles in quickly, after that, and it doesn’t take Snow all that long to fall asleep again, the sound of rain overhead a soothing lullaby.

She’s woken a couple of hours later by the soft press of lips against her forehead -- a welcome greeting that comes all too soon. She barely registers David’s murmur of _shower_ before he’s gone again, and Snow is left to rub the sleep out of her eyes and blink blearily into consciousness. It’s lighter, now, and even though rain is still falling fairly steadily, she can tell that the sun is about to rise above the horizon, hidden behind the clouds.

Today, dawn is quiet and dark, and in the absence of true light, Snow turns to look at Regina, who is still sleeping soundly, looking reasonably relaxed. It won’t last for much longer, not if they all strive to make it to work on time, but Snow is content to let Regina sleep for at least a little while longer. She tries to keep quiet as she moves through the apartment, surprised to see Neal still sleeping for once. Sleepily, she shuffles around the bedroom, changing into work clothes and making sure her purse and messenger bag are properly packed.

She’s back in the kitchen -- teapot on the stove and lunchboxes in front of her -- when Regina finally starts to stir on the couch. Snow flicks her gaze up from where she’s tucking a pear into each box as Regina inhales sharply and blinks into awareness. It takes a few seconds before she sits up and glances around the apartment, looking bewildered. Snow’s hands grip the edge of the counter as she waits for Regina to find her. She doesn’t want to speak for fear of startling Regina, given how disoriented she was earlier. Snow wants Regina to feel safe, here, and if it means biting her tongue for another moment until Regina’s aware of her presence, then so be it. When Regina’s eyes finally land on her, a spark of familiarity clears some of the confusion. “Morning,” Snow greets quietly, offering up a tentative smile.

Regina’s quiet for a moment before she speaks. “What the hell am I doing here?” she asks, voice thick with sleep.

Snow’s smile tightens around the edges. “I’m still trying to figure out the answer to that myself,” she admits, closing the lids of the lunchboxes before moving out around the breakfast bar. Regina’s eyes follow her as she crosses the room and sinks down in the rocking chair again, and it takes a considerable amount of self-restraint for Snow not to reach out for Regina’s hands. “Do you… remember how you got here?”

Slowly, Regina shakes her head and sinks back against the cushions. “No,” she answers faintly. “I don’t.”

Snow takes a minute to choose her words carefully. “We found you in our bathroom at four this morning,” she explains. “We assumed you used your magic to transport yourself here.”

“That’s not… possible,” Regina says, looking down at her hands. “My magic’s still mending. I haven’t been able to use it like that since the summer.”

“You didn’t have your keys with you,” Snow reasons. “I don’t think you just walked in through the front door, Regina. And… your magic _was_ working when we found you.” Regina glances back up at her, then, apprehension clear in her eyes. “It was, um, sparking, I guess?” Snow tries elaborating, gesturing awkwardly with her hands. “I’m not sure how else to describe it.”

Regina inhales sharply and looks down at her hands again, shifting uncomfortably on the couch. “Yes, it’s been doing… that, but that’s different. It’s not --” She stops, abruptly, eyes snapping back up to meet Snow’s, brow knitted in study. “Did I… hurt either of you?” she asks, hesitant and clearly anxious at the thought.

It’s Snow’s turn to shift uncomfortably now. She doesn’t want to cause Regina further distress by answering with the truth, but she also knows that lying will probably make things even worse. And beyond being the right thing to do, Snow knows that they have earned this -- honesty and trust and truth. So it’s with a fair amount of awkwardness that Snow straightens up a little and puts on as much of a smile as she can muster, ignoring the ache in her bones from their earlier encounter. “It’s my fault,” she says, firm and falsely bright. “You told me you couldn’t control it. You told me not to touch you, and I did it anyway.”

Snow’s attempt at a more positive disposition clearly doesn’t work, if Regina’s expression is anything to go by. Her face falls a little at the information, eyes full of what is clearly guilt. Regina’s swallow is audible before she asks, “Are you… alright?”

“I’m fine,” Snow says, waving a hand dismissively in hopes that Regina will drop it. It’s not the most pressing of the issues they should be discussing right now, anyway, so Snow tries to relax her posture before changing the subject. “Do you… remember anything that happened?”

Regina shrinks back against the cushions a little, shaking her head. Snow’s not sure if she’s surprised that Regina doesn’t remember what happened a couple of hours ago, but things are different now. Regina is awake, that much is obvious, but she’s clearly more cognizant and aware of what’s going around her than she was in the bathroom earlier. She still looks so… lost, though, and the sight of her makes Snow’s heart ache. “No,” Regina says quietly. “I don’t remember being… here.”

Snow’s heart sinks. “But you remember the Netherworld?” she ventures gently, sensing she’s about to get some insight into what’s really going on. Regina meets her eyes for only a few seconds longer, though, before inhaling sharply and looking down at her lap. But Snow is patient -- _so_ patient with Regina, always full of hope that things will keep getting better. She’s willing to wait, willing to give Regina time and space and quiet to think and pull herself together if it means she’ll open up.

And then the tea kettle starts to whistle on the stove, and the moment is lost.

Snow barely has a chance to push herself to her feet before Neal starts to cry, mostly likely woken up by the noise. She hesitates for a second, glancing from Regina to her son’s cradle and back, before inspiration strikes. “Can you hold him for a few minutes?” she requests, already making her way into the kitchen. “I’m just going to finish making some tea, if you could --”

“Um, yeah, sure,” Regina agrees distractedly, untangling herself from the blanket and pushing herself to her feet. Snow’s digging around in one of the cupboards for sugar and honey when Regina lifts Neal out of his crib and holds him close, murmuring softly to try and get him to calm down. Snow can’t help but smile as she doctors the mugs of tea. She knows how Neal gets in the morning, overly-fussy and inconsolable until he’s held and fed. She knows trying to soothe her son will keep Regina preoccupied for a few more moments, and Snow’s counting on the effort to be calming for Regina as well. If Snow can get Regina to relax a little, she might be more willing to talk about what’s going on.

Snow switches her attention to making a fresh cup of coffee for David just as Regina starts to sing, eyes soft and warm as she rocks Neal in her arms. Snow immediately recognizes the song by its lyrics first -- “Hush, Little Baby” -- and she can’t help but lean against the sink counter and watch with fondness while she waits for the coffee to brew. It’s been a long time since she’s seen Regina interact with a baby like this, gentle and open and unaffected. It’s not like she hasn’t spent any time around Neal in the last six months, but Snow doesn’t think she’s ever seen their interaction quite this… intimate before. Regina’s touch is exceedingly gentle as she sings, her voice a little scratchy and uneven at first. Her voice becomes clearer, more melodic as she works her way through the lyrics, though, and she smiles through _buy you a diamond ring_ as Neal starts to quiet. “And if that diamond ring turns brass,” Regina sings, “Mama’s gonna buy you a looking…” She tapers off, then, smile faltering and warmth disappearing from her eyes as she pulls back to look at Neal properly. “ _Glass_ ,” she breathes.

Regina suddenly looks _terrified_.

Her own smile gone now, Snow cautiously takes a step toward them. “Regina?” she prompts. She gets no response, but Regina’s hold on Neal doesn’t slacken, so Snow tries not to panic just yet. Slowly, she closes the distance between them and rests her hand gently on Regina’s arm.

Regina starts a little and glances over at her, and it’s with the same aching familiarity Snow had felt earlier that she recognizes the look in Regina’s eyes -- guilt. Inhaling sharply, Regina quickly shifts Neal into Snow’s arms and takes a step back, ignoring the steaming mug of tea waiting for her on the breakfast bar. “I, um -- I should go,” Regina says, looking away and tucking her hair behind her ear. “There’s, um -- I should get to work. And I still -- there are still so many things I need to pull together for Henry’s birthday tomorrow, and I have the city council meeting tonight. I really should just… head home. Robin --” Here, Regina stops, hands gripping the edge of the breakfast bar as she exhales heavily. “Robin probably woke up and I wasn’t there and --”

“It’s okay,” Snow tries to assure her, adjusting her grip on Neal and resisting the urge to move closer to Regina. “I had David call him earlier --”

“Robin knows I’m here?” Regina asks thickly, looking over at her.

Snow nods, unsure where this conversation is headed. “He’s taking care of the boys, making sure they get to school on time. He was going to come and pick you up, after.”

Regina shakes her head in protest. “That’s -- it’s not necessary. It’ll be better if he sees me later. Do you think -- would it be okay if David drove me home instead?”

Snow narrows her eyes, more confused than ever. She doesn’t understand why Regina’s walls are going back up so quickly, why she’s putting distance between them, why she’s keeping _Robin_ at arm’s length right now. It feels more indicative of what Regina _used_ to do, of a version of Regina that’s long gone and buried in shadow. Regina has come too far to regress like this, to isolate herself and refuse help, but Snow also knows that pushing Regina too far right now might do more harm than good. “Sure,” Snow agrees hesitantly. “David should be out of the bathroom in a few minutes. We, um -- you should let Robin know the change in plans before you leave, but I’m sure David will be happy to take you home.” She glances out of the bedroom window at the rain falling outside. It’s not quite as bad as it was a couple of hours ago, but it’s still steady and strong. She bites her lip as she turns her attention back to Regina, Neal starting to fuss again in her arms. “I can grab a pair of shoes and a sweater out of the closet for you to borrow, if you want,” she offers.

“That… would be nice, thank you,” Regina says, looking more uncomfortable now that she’s remembered she’s barefoot and in pajamas.

Neal fusses a little more in Snow’s arms and she _knows_ that he’s hungry, knows that there’s little left that will pacify him until she can get around to it. Regina’s singing had seemed to work wonders, a few minutes ago, but Regina is clearly uncomfortable holding him right now. Snow’s not sure which is the worse of the two options right now -- putting Neal back in his cradle or passing him off to Regina -- but she’s spared from having to make a decision when David finally emerges from the bathroom, phone in hand and pressed against his ear. “She’s actually awake,” he says into the phone, eyes landing on Regina.

Regina turns toward him, fingers flexing anxiously on the edge of the breakfast bar. “Is that Robin?” she asks. David nods as he approaches, but Regina meets him halfway before he can say anything else. “Let me talk to him,” she pleads, holding out a hand expectantly. David hands the phone over without hesitation, eyes surveying Regina curiously as she carries it over to the couch and sinks back down. She’s quiet in her greeting, voice low and vulnerable again, and even though Snow can’t make out what she’s saying, the way that Regina is speaking to Robin is affectionate and honest.

Snow has absolutely no idea what to make of Regina right now.

She’s offered a distraction when David sidles up next to her in the kitchen, holding his arms out in silent offering. Snow shifts Neal into his arms with a frustrated sigh and makes her way back into the bedroom, digging around for something warmer than just a thin cardigan and a pair of shoes that will hold up reasonably well in the rain. She doesn’t have an extra pair of rainboots, but she’s got some others that she thinks will fit Regina just fine. Snow tries to make quick work of it, boots and socks and coat in hand as she makes her way back out into the front of the apartment.

When Snow emerges, David’s pulled out a spare bottle for Neal to give her a reprieve. Regina’s just hanging up the phone, looking more agitated than she did a few moments ago. Snow approaches her cautiously, opting to set the clothes and shoes on the rocking chair rather than sit in it herself. She only barely refrains from asking if everything’s okay because she already knows the answer, and she knows Regina won’t appreciate such a trite question. So Snow takes a minute to consider her options before she asks, “Is Henry okay?”

Regina blinks up at her, brow furrowed in clear confusion. “Why would you ask me that?”

“You… mentioned him, earlier,” Snow clarifies, remembering that Regina doesn’t have any recollection of what happened in the bathroom earlier. “You said he was the reason you were here. I thought -- we thought he might be going back to the Netherworld with you. I had David call Robin and check on him.”

Regina shifts uncomfortably and drops her gaze, reaching for the socks and boots on the rocking chair. “Robin said the boys were fine,” she says shortly as she tugs the socks onto her feet. She’s quiet for a moment as she slips her feet into the boots, fingers clumsy as she does up the laces. “It wasn’t -- I don’t think Henry’s going back there,” she says quietly. “I’ve been trying really hard to keep him out of this.”

Snow’s shoulders fall as the realization dawns on her. “You’re pushing him away again.”

Regina visibly tenses at that, but she still won’t meet Snow’s eyes. She reaches for the coat on the chair instead and pushes herself to her feet. “It’s only temporary,” she reasons, not for the first time.

It’s spring all over again, darkness descending upon the town and Regina putting up walls, retreating. Behind castle walls, isolated and alone and a note tucked in Snow’s satchel thanking her for trying, trying, trying. Regina hadn’t planned on coming back and she’s leaving now and there are walls, walls, walls.

Snow has had enough.

“For kids, temporary can seem like a long time,” Snow throws back, just enough edge in her voice that she knows the memory will resonate with Regina.

Regina makes a noise of derision as she shrugs into the coat and moves toward the door. “I am not having this conversation with you again,” she says dryly, turning at the front door to wait for David. “I don’t need advice from you on how to be a good --”

Snow inhales sharply even before Regina cuts herself off. The sentiment is out there even if it’s left unspoken, and Snow has so _many_ reasons to be angry. She has every reason to be angry that she’s only recently gotten her second chance to be a mother. She has every reason to be angry that Regina took her first chance from her. She has every reason to be angry with this woman who was supposed to be her mother, mother turned enemy turned friend, and --

And then Regina’s sinking down onto the bottom of the steps that lead up to the loft, looking like she’s had the wind knocked out of her. The guilt in her eyes gives way to regret, and this -- _this_ is why Snow can’t bring herself to be angry enough with Regina. Because Regina -- _this_ Regina -- is unlike any version Snow’s encountered before. This Regina thrives on the love of a child and makes friends out of enemies and falls in love with every broken fragment of her soul. This Regina is both light and dark and carries around the weight of her past with _grace_. This Regina protected Snow’s home and body and child, time and time and time again. This Regina wears the same look on her face she did nearly thirteen years ago, when her child had cried and cried in her arms and she could do nothing to soothe him.

This Regina is _lost_ , and all Snow wants to do is find her.

Snow hesitates only for a moment, deliberating, before she moves into the kitchen. She reaches for Neal and David obliges without protest, but there are questions in his eyes, questions and concerns. He’s clearly lost, too, unsure what to do or say or how to help, looking to her for guidance. And this -- this is _her_ anchor. David is her light when she is drifting in darkness, and they have always worked better together. “Just give us a few minutes,” Snow requests, leaning in to press a warm kiss to his cheek.

She can feel David’s eyes on them as she crosses the room again and sits down on the stairs next to Regina, whose eyes are trained on her hands again. Snow chooses to remain quiet, rubbing Neal’s back to help settle him down after breakfast. She has a better idea of when it’s best to push Regina, how to help. For right now, that means letting Regina turn to face Snow in her own time. And sure enough, after a moment or two, Regina tentatively glances over at them, clearly still apprehensive. Snow offers her a half smile and shifts Neal in her arms. “Mother?” she says, picking up where Regina left off.

Regina shifts uncomfortably next to her, fingers flexing in clear anxiety. “I didn’t mean that.”

Snow smiles the rest of the way and moves Neal a little closer. “I know,” she says simply, tilting her head in Neal’s direction. “Do you want to hold him again?”

Regina shakes her head, fingers curling into fists. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

Snow keeps her face as impassive as she can, trying to hold onto patience again. “You were doing just fine not ten minutes ago,” she points out.

But Regina just shakes her head again, visibly recoiling. “I’d rather not risk it,” she says, wrapping her arms around her middle and looking away again.

Snow tries not to sound disappointed as she sighs, holding her son close again. “Look, I know you don’t want to talk about any of this -- the Netherworld or your magic or Henry or anything else. And I… will learn to be okay with that for the time being. But if _this_ ,” she says, angling her body toward Regina so their knees bump against each other. Regina glances over at where their bodies make contact, but she doesn’t meet Snow’s eyes again, not yet. “If you not understanding what’s going on with your magic, if you not having control over it -- if those things are bothering you most right now, then maybe you should talk to someone who can help you with that.”

Slowly, Regina unravels, arms unfurling and hands shaking as she looks over at Snow again. “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” she says, quiet and barely there and every bit a confession. “I don’t want to talk to Gold.”

Snow places a gentle hand in Regina’s to try and calm the tremors. She understands where Regina’s coming from, a place of both familiarity and fear. Regina’s knowledge of magic comes from two of the darkest people Snow’s ever known -- Cora and Rumplestiltskin. So it’s not surprising to Snow that Regina’s thoughts have turned to him now, and it’s not surprising that Regina refuses to seek him out. She’d broken that bond for a reason -- for a lot of good reasons, really. Regina’s probably terrified of tying herself to him again, and Snow honestly doesn’t blame her. But where Regina’s knowledge of magic had festered under mostly darkness, Snow’s had blossomed under light. Gold -- Rumplestiltskin has always been a last ditch effort for Snow, and right now, he’s not an option.

And Regina doesn’t need darkness -- she needs _light_.

Snow knows exactly who to turn to.

So with every ounce of patience she has left, Snow smiles. “I think I know someone else who might be able to help.”

* * * * *

The scents of frying bacon and eggs fill the kitchen on Thursday morning as Regina falls into her old standby of combating restlessness: cooking. She’d managed to avoid a trip to the Netherworld last night, but she'd slept poorly anyway, waking herself every few hours to make sure she was okay, that Robin was okay, that she hadn't broken anything or hurt someone in her sleep. She'd given up on getting any more quality sleep around half an hour ago, opting to check in on the boys before getting an early start on Henry's birthday breakfast.

She’s just setting the last of the bacon out onto paper towels to soak up the excess grease when she feels a pair of hands anchor at her hips. She starts only a little, relaxing once it registers with her that it’s Robin. She leans into his warmth and closes her eyes, angling her head to the side a little to let him press a kiss to her neck. “Morning,” she breathes, moving his hands to encircle her abdomen.

“Morning,” he murmurs back, lips moving to her ear. “What time did you get in last night? I didn’t even hear you get into bed.”

“Late,” she admits, corner of her mouth twitching into a smile. “After eleven. I tried to be quiet. I didn’t want to wake you.”

He _hmm_ s in reply, face tucked against her neck, breath warm against her skin. It’s distracting, enough so that his next question does catch her a little off guard. “How’d you sleep?”

She manages not to tense up, but she does have to take a measured breath before she can bring herself to answer him. “I slept,” she says, trying not to sound short. “Not enough, and not particularly well, but I slept. And before you ask,” she adds, opening her eyes, “I didn’t go anywhere.”

It’s Robin’s turn to take a measured breath, now, and she can feel tension creeping into his muscles as he holds her. Regina can tell that they’re both trying very hard not to have a repeat of their conversation in her office yesterday, when he’d been panicked and she’d been on edge and they’d both been a little too worked up to do more than have a strained conversation about what had happened with the Charmings. They are fighting for calm, now, for peace and comfort and a reliable anchor to get them through this. He’s quiet for a moment or two before venturing, “Have you, um -- have you given any more thought to Mary Margaret’s suggestion?”

A harsh exhale through her nose and Regina turns around in his arms, trying not to sound exasperated. “Look, I know that yesterday was… difficult for you,” she says carefully. “I know how upset and worried you were when you woke up and I wasn’t here, and I’m sorry for that, I really am. But you know that --”

“I know you don’t have control over it,” Robin supplies, sounding surprisingly patient as his hands anchor comfortably at the small of her back. “I was, admittedly, not in a good place yesterday. I haven’t been in a good place for a while, Regina. You know that.” Regina closes her eyes at that and anchors a hand over his heart to steady them both. She knows how stressed and agitated he’s been lately, knows the fear he carries around like it’s his own burden to bear. And she doesn’t -- she still doesn’t know quite what to do about it other than to _be here_ , but even that’s becoming a difficult thing to promise.

“Hey,” Robin murmurs, wrapping his hand around hers. “Look at me.” She obliges, albeit a little reluctantly. “I’m… worried, yes, but I know that you are, too. I know you don’t understand what’s happening to you, I know it frustrates you, and most importantly, I know that it scares you.” And god, even when she tries to keep him at arm’s length in order to protect him, Robin can still read her like an open book. He always has, and Regina is long past the point of finding it even the slightest bit annoying. Mostly, it makes her want to kiss him, now, and this is really not where she thought she’d be even a year ago.

This is much more what she thinks she envisioned her happy ending looking like, as complicated and messy as it still is.

So Regina smiles, and Robin takes it as encouragement. “I’m only pushing for Mary Margaret’s suggestion because as far as I know, it’s the only thing you have to go on right now,” he says. “There isn’t -- I can’t do much else for you, Regina, other than… _be here_ , at least until you tell me otherwise. This is the only way I can think of to help you.”

Regina’s smile softens around the edges. She is _tired_ , tired and cold and anxious and longing for answers. But she’s also had a lot on her plate, lately (she almost always does, really), and today… Today is supposed to be different. Today is supposed to be a reprieve, and she doesn’t want to feed her anxiety any more than she already has. She leans in a little closer and snakes her arms up around Robin’s neck, fingers playing with the hair at the nape. “I’m not disregarding the suggestion,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “I’m just… putting it on the back burner for now. I honestly just want to get through today,” she admits with a sigh. “It’s Henry’s birthday. I want it to be a good day, not just for him -- for all of us.” She pauses when he bites his lip, clearly not thrilled at the idea of putting off getting help with her magical problem. She hesitates half a moment longer before resting her forehead against his, maintaining eye contact even though they can’t really discern each other at this proximity. “You can understand that, right?”

“You know I can,” he murmurs lowly, nose brushing against hers as he pulls her closer. “I’m all for putting our children first. I just… want you to take care of yourself as well.” Any response Regina might have dies on her lips as Robin’s fingers drift up under the hem of her sweater and drag along the skin there, dancing dangerously close to the waistband of her skirt. She’s unsure if he’s playing dirty or if his desire is piqued -- a little of both, maybe -- but she finds she doesn’t really care, not with the way his lips ghost over hers. They haven’t had a moment like this since before their argument on Tuesday, alone and intimate and longing, and again, Regina finds herself missing the simplicity of early summer before this whole mess started. “Soon?” Robin murmurs against her lips, hopeful.

“Soon,” Regina promises breathlessly, moving her hands to his face and capturing his lips in a kiss. It’s _wonderful_ , honestly, to let herself get lost in this for a few moments, to be anchored and in love and so sure of her reality. It’s Robin’s nails digging into the skin of her back and the satisfying scratch of his facial hair under her palms and the way they breathe within the kisses, each and every one. This -- _this_ is part of Regina’s happy ending. She wants a life with love and family and stability, wants people she can count on and maybe a little bit of power and public service. She wants life as a mother and a lover and a friend, wants life where maybe a magical problem every once in a while isn’t all that unwelcome as long as it doesn’t try to pick her mind apart. She wants a life where she has room to breathe and she’s pressed against the counter now and a life that is hers and hers alone and Robin’s hands are starting to wander up under her skirt and --

“Can you guys be gross somewhere that’s not right next to my breakfast?”

Regina bats Robin’s hands away quickly as they break apart and try to put some space between them as Henry ambles into the kitchen. Robin’s very nearly laughing at the interruption, and while it’s a sight she would be more than glad to see under any other circumstances, it’s entirely inappropriate right now. She fixes him with a _look_ and very resolutely does _not_ smile regardless of how alluring the dimples are. “I’ll, um -- I’ll head upstairs and rouse Roland,” Robin offers, not quite managing to stifle a laugh as Henry maneuvers past them. Regina’s eyes follow him as he heads out into the foyer and up the stairs, and in spite of the sheer awkwardness of the situation, seeing Robin smile right now makes her heart ache with affection.

Today could be different if she tries.

Determined and still a little flushed, Regina straightens up and turns her attention to her son, who is currently reaching behind her to swipe a piece of bacon off of the towel. He’s got half the piece in his mouth when she manages to catch him, a hand anchored on either side of his face and oh god, he’s _actually_ as tall as her now without shoes on, when did that happen? “Mom,” he grumbles, mouth still full of food. “Mom, stop. ‘m not five, ‘m --”

“A teenager, yes,” she sighs reluctantly. “And I am still your mother and I am going to wish you a happy birthday the same way I always have whether you like it or not,” she declares, leaning in to press a kiss to his forehead.

“You’re ridiculous,” he huffs, shrugging out of her hold and sinking down onto a bar stool at the island.

“I’m going to let that slide because it’s your birthday,” she teases back, setting about fixing him a proper plate of food. “And because it’s your birthday, you know the rules -- one gift in the morning before you go to school,” she reminds him, indicating the small, wrapped gift sitting on the center of the island. Henry perks up a little at that and reaches across the island for it, but his hand stops just shy of picking it up when Regina sets his plate down in front of him. She arches an eyebrow and leans against the island, confused and curious and maybe a little amused. “It’s not going to bite,” she assures him, teasing. “Or turn you into a toad.”

Henry doesn’t laugh, though, doesn’t even smile, and Regina’s recent good mood starts to falter as he pulls his hand away. “Actually,” Henry ventures hesitantly, not quite looking her in the eye, “is it okay if I save that for later?”

Regina narrows her eyes a little. “Why?”

“I wanted to ask for something else right now,” he admits, fingers toying with a strip of bacon.

She _tsk_ s in disapproval and hands him a napkin. “Me taking requests on what you get to open in the morning is not usually how this works, Henry --”

“Where were you yesterday?” he asks, quiet and firm as he finally meets her eyes again. “I didn’t see you at all yesterday.”

Regina falters a little and she _knows_ that he notices, knows that hardly anything escapes her increasingly observant son no matter how hard she tries to be a good parent and keep him out of certain things. Still, she does her best to regain her composure and forces herself to maintain eye contact. “You know where I was yesterday,” she deflects. “I went over to see your grandparents before work. I had some errands to run in the afternoon, the city council meeting last night --”

“And Robin was _really_ freaked out yesterday morning,” Henry interrupts with a huff, tossing his napkin down on the island. “He tried not to let it show, but I could tell.” Regina’s lips thin into a line but she doesn’t reply. She’s not -- she’s not angry, and she’s definitely not angry with Robin. She’s sure he _did_ try to keep himself together in front of the boys, but Henry is nothing if not observant and aware and exceedingly good at reading people. He’s getting to be a near-master at reading _her_ , and the realization makes her feel simultaneously touched and anxious. “What _happened_ yesterday morning?”

Regina inhales sharply and finally breaks eye contact, busying herself with preparing plates for the rest of their family. “Nothing you need to worry about,” she dismisses, hoping he’ll let the subject drop.

He doesn’t. “I’m invoking birthday privileges,” he announces, and there is such _authority_ in his voice that Regina can’t help but turn around and look at him again. He’s… not angry, that much she can tell, but he’s definitely agitated. That sets Regina’s nerves on edge and makes her anxiety flare up again because she has been fighting so _hard_ to keep him out of this, to protect him from a situation that could open him up to harm again. But there’s something in his eyes that gives her pause, something faint and familiar, and it’s with the utmost ache in her soul that she recognizes it as the same look he’d had when she’d walked in the front door after her sleeping curse.

Henry is afraid.

Regina just wants him to be happy.

Today is supposed to be a good day.

She’s quiet as she wipes her hands on a dish towel and moves back to the island, situating herself in front of him again. She doesn’t want -- she’s not going to just unload everything on him over his birthday breakfast. There are things he doesn’t need to know, things she won’t tell him because she is his mother and he is her child and she has to draw a line in the sand somewhere. He doesn’t need to bear the burden of her guilt. And there are things -- there are things she is still too terrified to tell him, things about her experiences in the Netherworld that she’s still worried might pull him back in with her. But she can give him… something, maybe, to pacify his curiosity and concerns for the time being. “I’m just… having a little trouble with my magic, is all,” she says, hoping she sounds convincing because it’s at least enough of the truth that he can’t call her out on lying.

Henry’s brow knits as he studies her, clearly trying to figure out if she’s telling him the truth or not. “I thought your magic hasn't been working since --”

“It hasn’t been,” she rushes to agree, not wanting to talk about Gold. “But I’ve known for a while that it will mend.”

“So, what,” Henry says slowly, “your magic’s trying to fix itself but it’s not doing it right?”

Regina glances down at her hands and _wills_ her anxiety away. She won’t let the sparks manifest, not here, not now, not in front of her child, not when she’s already hurt one. “I’m not entirely sure _what_ my magic is doing right now,” she admits softly. They’re both quiet for a long moment, and then there is warmth blooming in Regina’s chest as Henry slips one of his hands into hers.

And then Roland is bounding down the stairs and into the kitchen proclaiming _BIRTHDAY!_ at the top of his lungs as he throws himself at Henry’s legs, and the moment is lost.

The rest of the morning is a fairly busy, bustling, noisy affair. Henry has generous second helpings of everything but leaves the gift in the center of the island untouched. Roland asks a thousand and one questions about birthdays and perks up considerably when Henry promises that they’ll make Roland’s birthday just as special, come November. Regina passes on the eggs but has more than her fair share of bacon and green apples. And Robin -- well, Robin can’t seem to keep his hands off of her, his touch a gentle, buzzing current she much prefers to the magic that’s been threatening to sear her skin this week.

It’s a good morning.

Good enough, in fact, that by the time they’re all congregating in the foyer to bundle up before heading out for the day, Regina has managed to put her plethora of problems so far in the back of her mind that her smile comes much more easily. She watches her boys with fondness from her perch on the stairs as she zips up her boots, smiles at the way Roland’s fingers fumble as Robin tries to teach him how to tie the laces. She finds Henry watching her as he tucks his scarf into a knot around his neck (it’s only forty out right now, she’ll have to make sure he doesn’t forget his gloves) and still her smile doesn’t falter, not even when his gaze turns a little too studious and serious.

He meets her at the bottom of the stairs just as she pushes herself to her feet, hands tucked tightly into the pockets of his coat. “Do you have your gloves?” she checks, adjusting his scarf for him. “It’s freezing out there right now. It’s supposed to be overcast all day.”

“Yeah, yeah, in my pockets,” he dismisses, grumbling a little as she makes sure his coat is buttoned up properly. “Seriously, Mom. I’m not five.”

“And yet that’s not going to make you any less prone to over-indulging in sugar today,” she argues, grinning. “Try not to drive your teachers crazy.”

Henry rolls his eyes and then stills under touch, lips twisting into a knowing smile as he redirects his gaze to her face. “I’ll make you a deal,” he says cheekily. “I’ll lay off of sugar until we do cake tonight if _you_ go get help with your magic today.”

 _That_ is enough to get Regina’s smile to disappear, her mouth falling open a little in surprise. She’s not entirely surprised that he’s not letting the subject drop, but she’s a little caught off guard by the way he’s bartering with her. They’ve negotiated plenty between them before -- bedtimes and allowances and video games and food and sleepovers -- but it’s never quite been like this. He’s not -- when it comes down to it, Henry will usually respect her bottom line, will follow whatever rules or guidelines she’s laid out. She’s the parent and that usually grants her a fair amount of license with Henry, but this, she’s realizing, is different. She remembers the look in his eyes -- his near hysteria not five feet from this spot at the end of the summer -- and her chest feels a little tight. And still, she tries to hold out. “I don’t think birthday privileges include room to negotiate on things like this.”

Henry’s smile fades, his hands coming up to grip the lapels of her coat. “And _I_ think,” he sighs, “that what I want most for my birthday is for my mom to be okay.”

Regina feels all of the breath leave her at once. _Damn_. “You know, I’d ask where you learned how to give such a convincing guilt trip, but I think I already know the answer to that.”

“So does that mean you’ll do it?” Henry hums, a smile playing at his lips. “You’ll go see Grandpa today?”

Regina narrows her eyes and shakes her head. “I’m not going to him for help,” she says thinly. Confusion clouds Henry’s eyes, and she thinks she sees a little hurt there. So she heaves a great sigh and musses up his hair, anchoring a hand on either side of his face and trying not to laugh when his lips pucker. “There are other people I can talk to,” she reminds him, trying not to let her discomfort at the idea of following through with Mary Margaret’s suggestion show.

Henry smiles into her hands. “Fair enough.”

It’s Regina’s turn to roll her eyes as she releases her hold on him. “Go,” she urges, reaching for her coat hanging over the banister. “If you’re all insisting on walking this morning, you better get going or else you’re going to be late for class. And I am not writing you a note to excuse you for being tardy, even if it is your birthday.”

“Okay, I’m going, I’m going,” Henry sighs, picking up his backpack and ambling toward the front door. He holds out his hand for Roland to take before he crosses the threshold, though, and the sight of their clasped hands as they make their way down the front walk is enough to make tears sting at Regina’s eyes.

God, she really is a mess right now.

“You all right?” Robin checks, lingering in the doorway as she shrugs into her coat.

Regina offers him a slightly watery smile as she picks up her purse from the side table and descends the last couple of steps to join him in the doorway. “Fine,” she dismisses. “I’ve just been guilt-tripped by my son into going to get help with my magic today, that’s all.”

She can tell he’s fighting back a smile. “I promise you I didn’t have a hand in that, although I can’t say I’m unhappy with this particular turn of events,” he admits, reaching into the coat closet for a scarf. “You did say you wanted this to be a good day.”

“Yeah, well,” Regina scoffs around a sigh. “I can’t say that I’m particularly thrilled at the idea of going to her for help. We’re not exactly bosom buddies.”

“It may turn out to be just fine,” he reasons, wrapping the scarf around her neck for her. “You won’t know unless you try. And I doubt she's forgotten that you helped grant her freedom.”

Regina takes a breath to steady herself and tries to focus on the warmth of his hands against her skin. “You’ll be home in time for birthday dinner tonight, right?” she asks, not really wanting to talk about her impending quest any more.

“I promise,” Robin assures her, tucking his hands into her coat pockets for a brief moment. “I’ll probably be at the camp most of the day, helping the men start to move things indoors before winter, but I’ll be back for dinner. I’m sure we’ll have lost the light by then.”

Regina nods and reaches past him to grab his gloves off of the side table. “Stay warm,” she says, pressing the gloves against his chest. “We’ll be here when you get home.”

It’s the exact right thing to say, apparently (not that she’d been trying, really) because Robin’s hands are cradling her face and his lips are pressed against hers in half a heartbeat, warm and insistent and full of earnest. It’s picking up where they left off earlier, full of affection and anxiety from yesterday and _I just wanted to be sure of you_. And Regina is _more_ than happy to take a minute to give him reassurance, to take this moment for them and be a little selfish.

This is the life she has taken back, and she wants it to be full of moments like these.

She’s a little flushed again when he pulls away, although some of it is definitely attributed to the chill outside this time around, cold nipping at her even through her pantyhose. She exhales shakily as he releases his hold on her, toes curling in her boots. “You, um -- you should go,” she laughs, feeling stupidly young for a moment. “Go -- take these,” she says, fumbling with the gloves until he takes them from her with an impish grin. “The boys are going to be late if you don’t get moving.”

“As you wish, milady,” he murmurs, leaning in for one more brief kiss that _still_ manages to catch her off guard before he jogs down the front steps to catch up with the boys. When she turns to watch him leave, he’s grinning over his shoulder at her halfway down the walk, and it dawns on her, then, that he’s doing his part to try and make this a good day for all of them. Everything about him seems a lot lighter than it did even yesterday as he meets the boys on the sidewalk, all smiles and laughs and gentle hands. Regina leans against the door jamb as she watches her family disappear from view, and though her anxiety doesn’t dissipate entirely, all ache in her chest is replaced with affection.

She really could not be more in love with him.

And it’s that -- the bolstering of love and light and _I just want you to be okay_ \-- which fuels her fire, so it’s with new resolve that she pushes herself off of the door frame and closes the door behind her.

She just has to keep _trying_.

On the drive to the convent, though, doubt starts to creep in around the edges again. This is the only option she has at the moment, if she’s going to be proactive about finding a solution for her problem, but it feels a little uncomfortably… desperate. It’s not an absurd idea, not by any means, but that doesn’t stop her from wondering if it’s actually a _good_ idea to be seeking help from the Blue Fairy. For all that she and her kin are supposed to be impartial and non-interfering, Blue and her ilk have always been very much on the side of good. She’s been patron to the Charmings for as long as Regina can remember, and while Mary Margaret’s suggestion doesn’t surprise Regina in the least, it doesn’t make her feel better about this. Blue has only ever helped Regina when the Charmings -- Snow, in particular -- have asked for it. Going into this without that buffer sets Regina on edge and makes her feel uncomfortably young.

She is good -- _there is no good left in her_ \-- and she is light -- _the darkness likes how you taste_ \-- and she is trying very, very hard to live the life she’s reclaimed for herself -- _you foolish girl, it’s mine_.

When she arrives at the convent, though, she ends up sitting in her car in the parking lot for twenty minutes before she manages to work up the nerve to get out and head inside. She looks for Tink, first, needing _some_ sort of buffer to help ease her into this conversation with Blue, but Regina’s search proves fruitless after barely a glance around the lobby. Tink doesn’t live here, Regina knows that, but she’d been hoping that with the community efforts to help prepare for the coming winter -- refurbishing shelters and collecting donations -- she would find her here helping. Tink is nowhere to be found, but the rest of the fairies (nuns?) are all gathered in one of the smaller side rooms, surrounded by mountains of boxes and piles of clothes and blankets. Regina gets side-glances from a few of them when she crosses the threshold, but most of them don’t acknowledge her presence, too absorbed in their work to pay her much mind.

In the end, it’s Astrid who finally meets Regina’s eyes, and there are enough traces of civility and warmth in Astrid’s expression that Regina finds she can relax a little. Astrid takes a moment to address her, though, drawing in breath more than once as she clearly fumbles for the right words. “Ms. Mills,” she finally settles on, setting her clipboard down on top of a pile of blankets and turning to face Regina properly. “Can we help you with something?”

Regina takes a measured breath to steady herself and offers Astrid a smile -- a tight smile, but a smile nonetheless. “I was actually looking for… Mother Superior,” she admits, the name feeling a little odd on her tongue. “I had some questions for her.”

Astrid surveys her curiously for a moment before returning Regina’s smile. “She’s just in the back office,” Astrid says, using her pen to point Regina in the right direction.

Regina eyes the doorway with mild apprehension but forces herself to smile back in Astrid’s direction. “Thank you,” she says, not unkindly. “And let me know if you need help with any of this. If yesterday’s storm was any indication, we’re in for a rough winter.”

Astrid glances around the room at the mounting levels of supplies before turning her attention back to Regina, smile soft around the edges. “As long as we have enough room for people who seek out the shelters, I think it’ll be okay.” And Regina thinks of Robin, then, of the efforts he’s making to help bring the Merry Men indoors for the winter, to keep them warm and dry and safe and okay. Okay, Henry just wants her to be okay and Robin wants her to take care of herself and this is why she’s here to begin with, to get help for a problem that is making her home an unsafe space for her family.

So it’s with one last admittedly awkward smile that Regina leaves Astrid to her work and makes her way into the back office, taking care to close the door behind her quietly so they have some privacy. It’s not until the door clicks shut that Blue even looks up from the book in front of her. Surprise is evident on her face, that much is obvious, but she fails at masking her own apparent apprehension quickly enough for Regina to miss. It’s with a measured breath of her own that Blue leans back in her chair and gives Regina a once over. “Your Majesty,” Blue greets coolly.

The title ignites a fire under Regina’s skin that burns uncomfortably. “I prefer Regina,” she replies, knowing it won’t do any good.

Blue arches an eyebrow at her. “What can I do for you?”

Regina inhales sharply and squares her shoulders. Straight to the point, then. “I… had a few questions I wanted to ask you,” she says, knowing she sounds awkward and uncomfortable but unable to help it. “About magic.”

Blue purses her lips and leans a little closer to her desk, her attention already half-diverted. “Dark magic isn’t really my area of expertise, Your Majesty. I think you’d be better off talking to --”

“I don’t want to talk to Gold,” Regina bites out, much more sharply than she’d originally intended. She flexes her fingers anxiously and wills herself to calm down, tries not to think about darkness itching under her skin. “The questions I have -- they’re about _my_ magic,” she says, trying not to sound annoyed or defensive about Blue’s assumption. “I’m not sure if my breaking bonds with him has anything to do with it. It’s… complicated,” she ventures, knowing it sounds trite even before she says it.

Blue narrows her eyes a little and leans back in her chair, her study of Regina obvious. It’s meant to make her feel uncomfortable, but Regina has long since stopped caring what other people think of her. She’s not a child anymore, not a young queen on the precipice of darkness. She’s not seeking approval, doesn’t need it. So Regina stays put, doesn’t squirm, doesn’t shift, doesn’t break eye contact. “I don’t have enough experience with breaking bonds like that, Your Majesty. I told you as much at the end of the summer.”

“I know,” Regina interjects quickly, taking a step toward the desk and gripping the back of the guest chair for purchase. “But this is about that, too -- about what… happened to me this summer.”

Blue’s mouth quirks up into what Regina thinks is a fairly condescending smile. “I’m afraid I don’t have much experience with the particulars of sleeping curses, either,” she drawls derisively. “Breaking them, yes, but --”

“But you know about the Netherworld,” Regina rushes out, quick and quiet and breathless. The smile disappears from Blue’s face and Regina falters for a moment, fingers flexing anxiously against the top of the chair. “You know it exists.”

“Yes, I do,” Blue affirms. “What does that have to do with your magic?”

The question catches her off guard even though it shouldn’t. Regina knows why she’s here, what she needs help with, knows how much she’s comfortable sharing. She’s just... not entirely sure where to _start_. “It’s… complicated,” she offers again, finally breaking eye contact as she looks to the floor.

It’s a long moment before Blue finally responds. “Have a seat,” she sighs. Regina is fairly certain that the invitation is every bit as begrudging as it sounds, and god, she really is not in the mood for Blue’s particular brand of false sincerity and condescension. “Why don’t you start at the beginning? I’m listening.”

The sentiment feels less than sincere, but it’s there, the offer, out on the table and Regina supposes she should be grateful. So she takes a deep breath to steady herself and sinks down into the guest chair opposite Blue, the desk a welcome blockade between them. She doesn’t want to look Blue in the eye again, not until she’s gotten it all out, but her fingers still itch with the temptation of darkness, her gut twisting in anxiety. She hates this, hates being made to feel this young, hates that a part of her feels obligated to play nice in order to get help. The whole thing is so ridiculously twisted and backward, and Regina finds herself toying with the edges of her scarf just to keep her hands busy and her body calm. “After I broke bonds with Gold,” she says slowly, “my magic stopped working.”

“I did warn you it might,” Blue interjects, and it is every bit the _I told you so_ Regina is sure Blue means it as.

Regina swallows hard and focuses on the scarf in her hands. “I’m well aware,” she says, doing her best to sound patient. “But it didn’t take me long to realize that it wasn’t permanent. It felt… familiar, in some ways. I could tell it was mending. It just needed time before I could use it again.”

Regina pauses for a long moment, struggling to figure out how to explain the connection to the Netherworld. The silence isn’t particularly comfortable, but Blue is the one to fill it first. “How fortunate for you.”

Regina’s fists clench tightly around the fabric of her scarf, muscles seizing much the same way they had when Blue and her ilk had immobilized her and temporarily robbed her of her magic back in the Enchanted Forest during the war. It’s a memory that normally conjures up enough anger and rage to fuel her magic, but it’s the opposite of what Regina has wanted in recent months, the opposite of what she’s trying to do right now.

She is _trying_.

Slowly, her hands loosen their grip on her scarf. “In some ways, yes,” Regina agrees, playing the game. “In others… not so much.”

“Meaning?” Blue prompts.

Regina can’t help but shift uncomfortably in the chair now. She’s managed to make it the last week or so without delving into the specifics of her experiences in the Hall of Mirrors, has managed to keep people at arm’s length even when she’s sharing. It’s a delicate balance, difficult to maintain, but she’s committed to it for the time being. She doesn’t think Blue needs all of the particulars of her visits to the Hall of Mirrors in order to make sense of magic -- or at least that’s what Regina is hoping, anyway. “I… started going back to the Netherworld, at the beginning of the month,” she explains reluctantly. “When I’m there, my magic… works, for lack of a better term.”

“Works?” Blue echoes, clearly prompting for a better explanation.

“When I’m in the Netherworld, my magic manifests -- usually as light magic,” Regina clarifies, finally releasing her hold on her scarf and looking back up at Blue. Blue inhales sharply but quietly, squares her shoulders and sits up a bit straighter. She doesn’t speak, but her reaction is commentary enough. Regina feels oddly… settled by that, by the reluctant acknowledgement that her light exists to balance out her dark. “It’s… instinctual but not intentional. I’m not sure if that means I’m totally in control of it or not.”

“And when you’re awake?” Blue prompts, voice tinged with an edge of confrontation. “I’m guessing that’s not the case.”

Regina narrows her eyes in an effort to conceal how much the implication stings. “When I’m awake, it’s different,” she continues, doing her best to temper the bubble of anxiety threatening to swell again. “It’s like… lightning sparking out of my hands,” she breathes quietly, palm upturned and on display. “And I -- I can’t control it,” she admits, fingers curling into a fist when her hand starts to shake.

Blue’s gaze falls upon Regina’s hand, jaw working a little as she studies her silently. “Is that all?” she asks after a long moment, eyes flicking back up to meet Regina’s gaze. “Since you’ve broken the bond with the Dark One, are those the only ways your magic has manifested?”

Regina takes a breath to steady herself, ready to answer with a simple _yes_ , but she stops herself before she speaks when she realizes that’s not exactly true. “It’s -- for the most part, yes,” Regina says, fumbling for words. She tucks her hair behind her ear and shifts again in her seat, struggling to maintain composure. “There was an… incident, the other night. I might have magically transported myself in my sleep without meaning to, but other than that, I still can’t access my magic like I normally can. It’s still mending.”

Blue’s eyes narrow, like she’s trying to discern something, but it’s brief, gone almost instantly as she schools her features into something a little more neutral. “Like I said, my knowledge of bonds and the Netherworld is limited,” she sighs, trying and failing to sound apologetic. “And your situation does sound particularly… unique. I’m afraid there’s not much I can do to help you.”

Anxiety unfurls and dissipates and fades to an undercurrent in Regina’s veins as a breath escapes her. “I see,” she murmurs quietly. She’s not -- she shouldn’t be surprised, not really. It’s not unusual for Blue to refuse to help her, but Regina would be lying if she said she was expecting to be shut down this quickly. She’s not usually quite this… frank with Blue, even if their interactions are far and few between. Regina had been hoping that would earn her some points toward some sort of assistance -- information, books, something, anything. But the mere thought of it now feels sickeningly sycophantic, and that, at least, is something Regina has never been. She’s sure as hell not going to start now. So it’s with a deep breath that Regina squares her shoulders and sets her jaw, lips thinning into a line. “Thank you for your time,” she grits out tersely, pushing herself to her feet.

She’s barely turned halfway to the door when Blue speaks up again. “I would if I could.”

Regina grips the back of the chair again for purchase, knowing that even in profile, her agitation must show. It takes everything in her to breathe evenly, but she doesn’t even try to keep the edge out of her voice. “I’m sure you would,” she says, and Regina is not angry, she’s not. If she was angry, she’d be anchored, and right now she feels sparks away from drifting, an electric current dimming the fire in her veins --

“Do you know why I took Green’s wings from her?”

Regina averts her gaze back over to Blue, fingers relaxing against the chair as darkness creeps into her smile. “You took Tink’s wings because she disobeyed you,” she drawls, and for a brief moment, she is every bit the Evil Queen she knows Blue still sees her as. “You told her not to come back for me and she did it anyway.”

Blue looks at least mildly put out by the accusation which means she’s not in a position to deny it, something Regina finds solace in. “Fairies are -- with few exceptions -- creatures of light. We do not dabble in darkness. In very rare circumstances, we act to combat against it. It’s my job to keep them away from the darkness.”

Regina arches an eyebrow. “So, what,” she muses, barely biting back a dry laugh, “you wanted her to stay away from me because I was a _bad influence_?”

Regina’s amusement fades once she sees Blue’s expression shift and change. She’s softened a little around the edges, shoulders a little more relaxed. It seems almost… repentant, and if Regina weren’t so on edge right now, she would almost laugh at the irony. “I told her you were beyond help,” Blue admits. “I wouldn’t let her give you a second chance because you were surrounded by darkness.”

Regina turns to face her full on again, fingers gripping the back of the chair tightly. “Are you telling me that you refused me a second chance and took Tink’s wings from her because I was learning magic from Rumplestiltskin?”

Blue squares her shoulders again but remains relaxed otherwise, calm and composed. “Yes,” she says simply, without pretense. “I stand by that.”

Regina exhales sharply, incredulous, and forces herself to look away for a minute, jaw clenched in frustration. She hates this, hates _him_. She hates that being bonded to him was never really her choice, not with him manipulating her and pulling her strings, not with people like Blue to leave her even more susceptible to being devoured by darkness. She hates that even when she’s no longer bonded to him, Rumplestiltskin is still _screwing her over_. She hates that he is clearly the only option she has when it comes to getting control over her magic and navigating the Netherworld, and she hates that Blue is once again enabling him in his games. For all that the two have loathed each other for centuries, they’ve sure done a spectacular job at working together to ensure that Regina stays -- _stayed_ on the path to darkness. But that’s not who Regina is any more -- not now, not ever again. Darkness is part of her and she’s learning to live with it, to try and use it to her advantage, but it’s not who she wants to be. This is _her_ life, reclaimed and independent of him and hers alone. And Regina is not angry, she’s not, she’s not, she’s not.

“He was not… the only reason,” Blue adds after a few long, awkward moments of silence. Slowly, Regina turns to look at her again, jaw still set and eyebrows arched in silent expectation. But Blue just opens her mouth and then snaps it shut, drops her gaze and smooths her hands over her skirt. She’s… nervous, Regina realizes, clearly faltering and trying to buy herself some time or an out. Regina’s brow wrinkles in confusion, but she doesn’t let her guard down, not yet. “I was -- I had… concerns that you would become your mother.”

Regina’s blood runs cold. “And look how I turned out after that,” she says thinly, unwilling to play the game any more. And _still_ , Blue won’t look at her, clearly feeling something akin to guilt and Regina has had _enough_. “I guess you weren’t wrong to worry.”

“My concerns were valid,” Blue defends. She hesitates for a beat before adding, “But I admit they may have been self-made. I suppose I could have… followed Green’s example. I could have interfered.”

Regina does scoff out a laugh at that and fixes Blue with a _look_ when Blue looks up to meet her eyes again. The games, it seems, are at an end. “But you didn’t,” Regina points out. “You needed me for the same reason Rumplestiltskin did. You needed to get him to a land without magic. You needed me to do it. All I had to do was follow in my mother’s footsteps,” she remarks dryly. And there is _pain_ in her chest at that, a blackened hole where the light in Mother’s eyes had gone to die and Daddy had turned to ash in the Hall of Mirrors mere days ago and Regina has so much blood on her hands and _careful, dearie, wouldn’t want to end up like your mother now, would you_ \--

“But you didn’t,” Blue says, and her tone is so exceedingly sincere that it staves off the near anxiety attack Regina’s been building toward. “For every way you ended up like your mother, you were -- _are_ also very different. Your mother was dangerous because she didn’t have her heart. You are -- _were_ dangerous because you do. Your sister wanted your heart because of that -- because it’s the most resilient. There’s a reason you were able to defeat her,” Blue says, leaning forward a little. Her next words come out hushed and whispered like a confession, and Regina can tell it’s with the utmost reluctance that Blue says, “You are not all dark.”

_I am not all good, and you are not all evil. Things are not that simple._

There was a time -- a very, _very_ long time ago -- when Regina would have given just about anything to hear those words come out of Blue’s mouth. She’s not entirely sure that Blue means them -- at least not fully, anyway -- but Regina finds that she doesn’t really care. She doesn’t have energy or fight left in her for this, for the supposedly sincere and somehow still suspicious sycophantry of someone who genuinely wants nothing to do with her. Regina is _tired_ , and it’s with all of the grace she has left that she sinks back down into the chair across from Blue. She drops her gaze again, runs her fingers along the edges of her scarf and thinks of Robin’s warmth, of Henry’s smile and Roland’s laughter.

Regina believes.

“You know,” Regina muses, soft and quiet, “children from our world are taught to believe in you. They’re taught to believe in things like goodness and magic and bravery. They’re taught to believe in the power of wishing -- that if they really needed you, you’d be there for them.” Regina leans against the back of the chair but doesn’t slouch, mother’s voice still too engrained into every last line of her body. “I believed,” she says, and as much as she _wants_ to see the look in Blue’s eyes right now, Regina resolutely does not look up yet. “I didn’t learn that from my parents. My father wasn’t brave and my mother wasn’t good, but I believed. I believed in you.” She can hear Blue’s sharp inhale at that, can hear the chair squeak as she shifts and still Regina will not look up. “I used to wish for a different life,” she admits. “When I was very young, I wanted something… better. It wasn’t until I was a little older that I realized how selfish that was.”

“The wishes of children are often selfish,” Blue offers -- a rather pathetic attempt at validating Regina’s pain.

Regina ignores her. “I became more… observant, with age,” she continues. “I was twelve by the time I finally realized that the constant thumping sound coming from my mother’s vault was the sound of a thousand stolen hearts. I was twelve when I started to sneak down into the servants’ quarters to watch them cart off the dead bodies in the night. I was twelve when I finally understood what the bruises on my father’s skin meant.” She stops, here, takes a deep breath to steady herself and drops the scarf from her hands. These are things she hasn’t breathed to another living soul, pieces of her that stay tucked away in the darkened shadows. She owes Blue _none of this_ , doesn’t trust Blue at all, but this -- all of these things are things that Blue needs to hear whether she wants to or not.

If Regina has to find ways to live with the darker parts of herself while striving to stay in the light, then so does Blue.

“When I was twelve, my wishes changed. I stopped wishing for myself. I started wishing for my mother instead.” Another pause, the last deliberate one she’ll take, and Regina finally, _finally_ lifts her gaze to look Blue dead in the eyes. “It never really mattered what I wished for. You never answered me. Mother never changed, and I -- I _believed_ what she told me. I started believing I wasn’t good enough. And eventually, I convinced myself that was why you’d never answered me.”

Blue sits up a little straighter, clearly uncomfortable, and it’s her who won’t look Regina in the eye this time when she speaks. “Your Maj --”

“ _Don’t_ call me that,” Regina snaps firmly, hands smacking hard against the desk as she pushes herself to her feet and leans forward. “My name is Regina. I was Regina long before I was anything or anyone else. I was Regina when I was falling in love with Daniel, I was Regina when I saved Snow’s life, and I was Regina when I was clinging to hope in _spite_ of you.” And hope _burns_ in Regina’s lungs, scorching and she feels the twist in her gut, the one that precedes the sparks that sear her skin. She is dark and light and she had hurt Snow with this magic, magic she can’t control, magic she’d promised Henry she’d get help with, magic Blue is refusing to help her with now. “You have… _no idea_ who I really am, _Blue_ ,” she says, voice rough and raw and she will not give Blue the satisfaction of seeing her lose control of her magic, she won’t. So she pushes herself away from the desk and stands up straight, resisting the urge to wrap her arms around herself. “I didn’t need your second chance. Someone else gave me that -- a lot of someones, actually.” Another pause, forced and necessary this time as she struggles to breathe calmly. She is not alone in this -- hasn’t been alone in a very long time. In spite of how lost she’s been feeling, Regina finds she doesn’t _need_ answers here -- not from Blue.

She doesn’t need this star to guide her.

“There are days when believing in myself the way they do is… a challenge,” Regina admits, regaining some of her composure. “But I am… _trying_. And right now, Blue, I don’t need you to believe in me. I need your help, and you won’t even give me that.” And _still_ , infuriatingly, Blue will not look Regina in the eyes, but everything about her demeanor in the last few moments has changed. There is tension in every line of her body, hands gripping the arms of her chair so tightly that her knuckles turn white. She looks like she’s biting back a thousand words and her eyes have gone so _dark_ that Regina almost doesn’t recognize her.

Regina does not run from monsters, and she is not afraid.

She is _done_.

“Clearly this was a mistake,” Regina says, all but spitting it at her. “I’m sorry I wasted my time here with you when I could have been finding better ways to help myself.”

She turns to leave, then, knees trembling and hands shaking and anchor, anchor, she needs an anchor, needs to get out of here. Her hand is already reaching out for the doorknob when Blue calls out after her. “Regina, _wait_.” But Regina doesn’t, won’t waste another senseless minute here. Her hand grips the doorknob just as Blue’s hand wraps around the wrist of Regina’s free hand, and the next few seconds are a reactive blur -- an intuitive, anxious _no_ that starts at her core and coils and twists and spirals up and out of her skin, sparks searing Blue’s hand as Regina pushes her away. Together, they let out a collective pained sound as they pull away from one another. Regina twists until she’s leaning against the door, one hand still anchored to the doorknob for purchase, the other pressed firmly against her abdomen to fight against the brief blossom of pain. She’s forced to take a few gasps of air before she can even so much as swallow, eyes unfocused as she struggles to calm down. She’s not sure if it’s one moment or several that passes in silence before Blue speaks again. “Is _that_ how your magic’s been manifesting?”

Regina takes a moment before she glances over at Blue, who is clutching her potentially injured hand and studying it fairly closely. She doesn’t seem quite as… upset as Regina thought she might be, given the accidental assault. For all that Blue has been sticking to her hard line, Regina can’t help wondering if Blue had been sincere, earlier, when she’d said she’d help if she could. “When I’m awake, yes,” Regina rasps, clearing her throat.

Blue doesn’t look up at her, though, just continues to examine her hand. She flexes and wiggles her fingers, traces lines across her open palm and narrows her eyes in clear confusion. “You said it manifested as light magic in the Netherworld,” she says after a moment. “You said it was instinctual. What exactly is the instinct?”

Regina’s brow knits in concentration as she tries to come up with an appropriate answer without giving too much away. She tries to force herself to relax a little more, releases her grip on the doorknob and wraps both arms around her middle in an effort to combat the residual pain. She’d projected a shield, with Rumplestiltskin. She’d somehow managed to force her hands through glass, with Zelena. She’d tried to salvage one of the mirrors, with Emma. And she’d -- she’d tried to save Henry from falling through the portal the other night. Her instincts had been self-preservation, at first, but they’ve shifted since then, her priorities focused on helping others. But the common thread is _there_ , and her voice is quiet when she answers. “To protect.”

Blue’s hand ceases its movement at that, eyes flicking up to meet Regina’s steadily. Confusion and curiosity are evident in her expression, but Regina doesn’t miss the brief flicker of potential panic in Blue’s eyes. Blue recovers quickly, though, her attention diverted as she starts to move around her office to peruse shelves and shuffle through drawers. She’s clearly looking for something, but all she says is, “And when you’re awake? What are you feeling when the magic manifests?”

“Pain,” Regina supplies easily, the answer falling readily from her lips even as she watches Blue move around the room.

Blue huffs as she pauses briefly over an open drawer. “I meant more… what are you feeling right before it manifests? Is it different every time?”

More questions, more than before, better than before, and again, Regina is struck with the idea that for all of Blue’s circular reasoning, this might be her way of trying to help. And in spite of not wanting it -- at least not from Blue -- Regina’s recent outburst is serving as a stark reminder that she does _need_ help right now. Her desires -- her instincts -- are all still the same: she wants to protect, and this isn’t just about her. It never has been. So Regina swallows around her ache and tries to give it some direction. “It’s almost always the same,” she confesses, unwilling to unfurl her arms from around herself. “I’m usually… agitated. Anxious. Upset.”

“Describe the circumstances to me,” Blue instructs, kneeling down to pull a latched box off of a bottom shelf. “When has this happened, other than just now?”

Regina’s eyes squint a little as she continues to watch Blue search, wondering what’s of more importance here -- the object she seeks, or Regina’s answers. “It’s only happened a few times,” Regina admits. “Usually, it sparks and surges when I wake up after going to the Netherworld.”

“Usually?” Blue prompts, digging around in the box.

Yes, Regina thinks, usually, but even those experiences have been unique in their own ways. She’d broken a mirror, the first time around, and she’d hurt Mary Margaret the second. Her body has only seized up with this type of magic one other time outside of those instances, not including this one. But the lone memory is enough to knock the wind out of her a little, so it’s with only a little reluctance that Regina sinks back down into the guest chair and closes her eyes. “It manifested the other day,” she murmurs, one hand clutching the scarf Robin had draped around her neck this morning. “Robin and I were having an -- a discussion,” she amends quickly. “Things got a little tense. I may have damaged part of the pier by accident.”

“I wondered who was responsible for that,” Blue remarks idly, sounding almost amused. “Now hold still.”

“Why -- _ah_!” Regina gasps, eyes snapping open at the sudden sharp pain in her finger. Blue’s already pulling away before Regina can really register what’s just happened. It takes her a moment to put the pieces together -- the needle in Blue’s hand, the blood clotting on Regina’s fingertip. “What the hell was that for?”

“I figured you wouldn’t prick your finger on another needle voluntarily if I asked,” Blue says simply, dipping the tip of the needle into a vial that had previously escaped Regina’s notice.

“You weren’t wrong,” Regina mutters, examining her finger briefly before training her gaze on the vial. “What exactly do you want with my blood?” she asks, stomach churning at the thought of what someone like Blue would do with the likes of blood magic. Blue doesn’t answer her, though, just sets the needle down on the desk and holds the vial between her fingers. Regina can’t help but watch with interest as Blue waves a hand over the vial, the contents glowing brightly before spiraling up and into the air between them. Regina’s blood quickly thins out into one long thread, sparkling and spinning and changing color as it loops around on itself and twists into an infinity symbol. Eventually, the thread settles into shades of gray save for one small section in the center glowing bright white. It’s… mesmerizing to watch, to be honest, and Regina can’t help but push herself to her feet and gravitate toward it. “What are we looking at?” she breathes.

“Your magic,” Blue explains, arms folded across her chest and brow knit in concentration as she studies the twisted thread. “I guess you could say it’s like a… magical fingerprint.”

Intrigued, Regina moves out and around the desk to stand next to Blue. Regina knows how to detect traces of magic, knows more often than not how to identify the type of magic involved. She’s known how to do those things for a very long time, but she’s never seen anything quite like this before. And this -- _this_ is why Regina had come here in the first place. They may not be on particularly friendly terms and Blue might be less inclined to help her, but the breadth of Blue’s magical knowledge and abilities is still largely unknown -- both to the community at large and to Regina. If Blue can _see_ this -- if she can see Regina’s magic, can see her lose control -- then maybe Blue can identify it or pinpoint why it’s happening. And that -- _that_ is invaluable right now, given everything else Regina is currently dealing with, so she’s willing to bite her tongue and bide her time and stick around a little longer.

Tentatively, Blue reaches out a hand toward the suspended sample. Her fingertip barely makes contact with the length of light before it’s reacting, sparking slightly and spreading out to cover the rest of the thread in white before returning to its original state. Blue’s breath hitches in what is clearly surprise, and Regina glances over at her just in time to see her reaction register on her face.

Blue is _afraid_.

And all at once, Regina remembers feeling the same out on the pier on Tuesday. “You don’t understand it either,” she surmises. “You don’t know what it is.”

Blue is eerily quiet for a moment or two, eyes narrowed as her gaze lingers on the imprint of Regina’s magic. Slowly, her gaze shifts back down to her hand, and it’s only then that Regina notices the damage she’s inflicted -- an already-healing but still significant welt across the width of Blue’s palm. Regina balks a little at that, worried now that Mary Margaret had retained actual injuries but hadn’t let on. Regina can’t remember seeing any marred skin yesterday morning, but she hadn’t seen much -- mostly just face and neck and hands, and those had all been pristine as usual. But before Regina has a chance to ask any questions or apologize, Blue is inhaling sharply and curling her fingers into a fist, cradling her hand against her chest. “No,” she says, thin and firm. “I don’t.”

It’s more defensive than Regina was expecting, but she thinks that may have more to do with the injury than anything else. “You really can’t help me, can you?”

Blue finally turns to look at her, still clutching her hand but at least looking a little more relaxed. “To be honest, Your Majesty, I’m not entirely sure what exactly you wanted from me to begin with.”

Regina diverts her attention back to the manifestation of her magic still suspended in air next to them. “I just… am trying to understand it, is all. I guess I figure if I can understand it, I can control it.”

Blue’s hand waves in mid-air faster than Regina can even blink, the movement drawing the sample back into the vial. There’s mild panic in Blue’s eyes again when Regina looks back over at her. “Why in the _world_ would you want to control it?” she asks, alarmed and maybe a little incredulous.

Regina’s sure her own incredulity shows in her expression but she doesn’t really care all that much. Being unable to control one’s magic generally isn’t looked upon as a good thing, regardless of the person or the type of magic. She figured Blue would understand that much, at least, but then again, Blue really doesn’t _know_ her, and the situation is unique enough that Regina realizes it calls for a little more… honesty. Still, Regina isn’t much more comfortable now than she was when she first walked in a little while ago, so she moves back to the desk and leans against the edge, eyes trained on the floor. “I just… don’t want to hurt anyone,” she admits, and in that moment, she is eighteen all over again, meeting Rumplestiltskin for the first time.

_No._

That’s not who Regina is any more.

It’s a long, awkward moment before Blue comes to rest against the edge of the desk next to her. “How does it stop?” she asks. “The sparks -- do they only flare up once, or do they go on for a while? You said earlier that the magic surges when you wake.”

“A little of both,” Regina says, not bothering to look up. “But I -- I search for anchors,” she admits, growing more uncomfortable with each question. “I look for something or someone to keep me focused in the present until I can, I don’t know, calm down? Until I manage to stop feeling agitated or anxious or upset.”

“Sounds to me like you’ve already found a way to cope,” Blue muses.

“Coping is not control,” Regina snaps, hands gripping the edge of the desk hard. “Coping has gotten people hurt.”

“Regina,” Blue says, and it is the most _patient_ Regina has heard her sound all morning. “Your magic is mending.”

“I’m well aware,” Regina bites out, not feeling particularly patient herself. “You said you didn’t have enough knowledge of the Netherworld or breaking bonds to know if they had anything to do with this.”

“I don’t,” Blue reiterates. “But I’m willing to hazard a guess that your body is learning how to produce magic without the ties to the Dark One. Anything he taught you, anything you learned from him -- all of that is still part of how you know how to use your magic, but you can’t rely on the bonds to help you produce it any more.”

Regina finally looks over at her, eyebrow arched in question. “Meaning?”

“Meaning he taught you to rely on anger to make your magic manifest,” Blue reminds her. “It’s more than likely that you can still do that, but you don’t have his bond to make it easy. Your body is relearning how to make magic manifest again without him, what it can draw upon to call it forth. This magic you’re struggling to control -- it’s clearly coming from… a different place,” Blue says, clearly choosing her words carefully as she shifts uncomfortably next to Regina. “Until it starts to settle, I’d suggest just being extra mindful of your emotions, if you can help it. Coping might be the only thing you _can_ do for the time being.”

Regina turns her head to gaze out the small window overlooking the garden in the backyard. This is where she'd started, when she'd first started going back to the Netherworld. She'd wanted to avoid being angry. She'd wanted to cope. That desire had grown more desperate after her second visit. Coping had become necessary at that point because she hadn't been sure -- still isn't, in a lot of ways -- how her trips were affecting Robin. And then Henry had found out about her journeys, and necessity to cope had increased tenfold. But it had been Henry -- Henry in the Hall of Mirrors -- who had made Regina realize that coping wasn't going to help her in the long run. What she needs is to get out of the Hall of Mirrors. And that -- that is still her goal, first and foremost and absolutely clear, but she’s had to shuffle her priorities around a little. She’d confessed her magical problems to Henry this morning because it had seemed the easiest, most honest cop-out. He’s the reason why she’s here, but he’s not the only reason. Regina had hurt Mary Margaret yesterday morning -- Mary Margaret who was the first person Regina reached out to when all of this started, Mary Margaret who told her to find ways to cope, to ask Blue for help.

Right now, Regina has to find a way to control the spontaneous sparks and surges of magic before she can even think about trying to find a way out of the Hall of Mirrors.

She still has to cope _first_. And given Blue’s suggestion that Regina be mindful of her emotions, Regina realizes that she’s already instinctively found a way to help herself.

Maybe she’s doing something right.

“Be mindful of my emotions,” she sighs, pushing herself off of the desk and turning around.

“I’m afraid that’s all I have to offer,” Blue reiterates, plucking the vial from the desk and holding it out in offering.

Regina eyes it with apprehension and bites her lip, debating. “Actually,” she ventures, “would you mind holding onto that for a little while longer? I know you said you didn’t know what it was,” she rushes to add. “I just thought… maybe with a little more time, a little more study, you might be able to figure something out.”

Blue eyes the blood-stained vial with clear apprehension, rolling it between her fingers restlessly like she doesn’t really want to be touching it. It’s equal parts infuriating and demoralizing, but she takes a deep breath and tries not to be quite so.. reactive. Regina is afraid of what she doesn’t understand; she can grant Blue license to feel the same. “I suppose I can… try,” Blue says finally, still sounding exceedingly reluctant even as she sets the vial back down on her desk.

“Thank you,” Regina says, doing her best to sound emphatic and sincere. “I -- I _do_ appreciate it.”

Regina can feel Blue’s eyes on her as she makes her way out of the office and clicks the door shut behind her, and she can’t help but think of the way Gold’s disappointed gaze has followed her around all autumn. She feels… unsettled in a way she didn’t when she’d walked in here a little while ago, and even with the thought that she might be doing something right, Regina still feels the ever-present lurking of shadows. She feels heavy in a way that makes it hard to breathe, fatigued and tired and a little dizzy as her feet carry her back into the lobby of the convent. She’s just about to open the front door of the convent when she hears someone calling _Miss Mills!_ after her. It’s with a very deliberate, measured sigh that Regina turns back around, eyebrows arched expectantly as Astrid rushes to catch up to her. “Miss Mills,” she says breathlessly as she comes to a halt. “I was hoping to catch you before you left.”

Regina shifts uncomfortably but doesn’t fidget, doesn’t wrap her arms around herself. “I’m… not the one running the drive, if that’s what this is about. I’m happy to provide resources or contacts, but --”

“Oh, no,” Astrid says, waving her hand dismissively. “That’s -- things are coming together, but that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. I actually just… wanted to thank you. For -- for what you did for us this past summer.” Comprehension finally dawns on Regina, then -- the hat. Astrid’s talking about being freed from the hat. “I’m not sure if Mother Superior or any of my sisters said anything to you, but I wanted to thank you myself.”

Regina gives her a once-over, mouth twitching into a half-smile. “You’re the first, actually,” she says, a little amused. “Well, other than Tink, but she tends to be the exception to the rule.”

Astrid softens a little around the edges but doesn’t quite smile. She looks… uncomfortable, but it’s not until she speaks again that Regina realizes it’s not because of her. “There was a fair amount of darkness in that hat,” Astrid remarks, almost idly enough to be convincing. “I’m grateful to be back in the light.”

Regina struggles to swallow around her ache, heart twisting with empathy. She can feel the coil in her gut again, the one that precedes the sparks, but it feels different this time. It feels almost… natural, like it’s supposed to be there. After a moment, the coil unfurls and dissipates, and the feeling settles. “I know what it’s like to be trapped in darkness,” Regina says, and it’s more than she would ever disclose to a near-stranger. But this -- this feels right, and Regina starts to see beyond shadows. “I’m glad I could be of help.”

Astrid does smile at that, sincere and not too bright. “We’ll be sure to call you if we need any assistance with the rest of this,” she says, nodding back in the direction of the room where they’re compiling items for the drive. “I think Tinkerbell’s supposed to be here tomorrow. One of the sisters said she was helping the Merry Men today.”

Regina’s mouth twists into a smile at the thought of Tink spending time with Robin. “Then maybe tomorrow I’ll make an exception.”

The exchange leaves Regina feeling considerably lighter as she makes her way back to her car and settles into the driver’s seat. She’s still _tired_ , still just shy of running on empty. She still doesn’t have answers and she hasn’t gotten much help from Blue -- not that she was really expecting much in the first place. She still doesn’t have control and she doesn’t have any ideas or plans as to how to get out of the Hall of Mirrors, but Regina feels… okay. Astrid, at least, is proof that Regina has been doing something right for a while, her hands capable of healing instead of hurting.

Maybe it’s okay to be a little lost right now.

It’s with an absent smile that she starts to dig around in her coat pockets for her keys. Her brow furrows when she finds a piece of folded up paper in one of her pockets. Confused, she unearths the page and unfolds it to display over the steering wheel. The sight that greets her draws a laugh out of her, smile back in full force.

She’s been carrying around page twenty-three in her pocket all morning.

It takes her a minute to realize that Robin must’ve slipped it in there at some point earlier this morning -- most likely when they were saying their goodbyes and parting ways for the day. And he did it on purpose -- he _must_ have because he knows how anxious and lost she’s been, knows how much she’s wanted this to be a good day. It’s another attempt on Robin’s behalf to contribute to that, to fill her life with light and love and hope, and she loves him so much in that moment that it quite literally takes her breath away.

Alone now, Regina runs her fingers over page twenty-three and wonders if maybe she doesn’t have to be afraid of what this magic can do. It is, after all, light -- and it’s part of _her_.

She just has to keep trying.

With hope in her hands, Regina feels the itching shadows of darkness start to fade.

* * * * *


	5. October 12, 2013

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Reminder: This set of stories was conceptualized and outlined prior to the airing of 4B and thus does not take any canon events beyond 4A into account.**

_The Hall of Mirrors is a chaotic mess -- stained with poison and littered with rotten apples and broken glass and ash and an overturned cradle -- and all Regina wants to do is clean the corners and crevices of her mind._

_Her skin itches._

_A hat falls out of one of the remaining mirrors, and Regina’s heart stutters in her chest._

_She cannot move, and she cannot breathe._

_Slowly, her eyes shift to the bottom of the mirror that the hat has just fallen out of. She grips one of the poles of a mirror stand to help keep herself upright and steels herself for it, for the emergence of someone else -- someone new, even. So she watches and waits, holds her breath until her chest starts to feel tight and her lungs burn and she has to force air back into them._

_Nothing._

_Wary, Regina cranes her neck a little to get a better look at the mirror, eyes searching. Still, nothing, not even her own reflection, and yet she feels the steady gaze of eyes settle heavily on her shoulders like shadows._

_She cannot shake the feeling that she is not alone._

_But there is nothing in here, nothing and no one but her and the visions that manifest in the echoes. There is nothing until she moves, nothing until she tries. If she stands still, she is lost in darkness._

_So Regina takes a step forward._

_Nothing._

_Another step, then another, and another, and still nothing, nothing, nothing. She’s still wary, to be sure, still shaken from her most recent encounter in here. He -- it -- they hadn’t shown up, hadn’t manifested until after she’d moved, until after she was on her knees, until after she’d let her guard down. She’s wary of it as she kneels down in front of the hat now, eyes darting around the hall in paranoia, ears straining for sound. But there is nothing -- nothing but the firelight from the torches that cast shadows on the ground and play tricks on the glass, nothing but silence as she takes the hat in hand. She hesitates even with its tangible weight, unable to help looking over her shoulder before she finally diverts her attention to it. There’s a slip of paper tucked into the band of ribbon along the bottom, marked up in an untidy, spiky scrawl. Curious, she plucks the paper from the band to read what’s written there._

_We’re all mad, here. -- J._

_Jefferson._

_This is Jefferson’s hat, full of magic and doors, portals to other realms with one simple rule -- however many go in must come out._

_This is Regina’s way out._

_Hope flickers in her chest and she resolutely does not care, not when she finally has an option, not when this might be at an end. Her breath comes out uneven as she tosses the slip of paper aside, her hands shaking as she turns the hat upside down and grips the edges of the brim tight. She barely hesitates for the space of a beat before spinning the hat quickly, breath held in anticipation._

_Nothing._

_And still, her hope doesn’t extinguish or fade. Jefferson had the practiced hand -- it was his hat, after all. She’s only had to use it on her own twice without him, and the second time only worked because she’d had Emma with her. But once alone is enough, as far as Regina is concerned. She’s done it once before, which means she can do it again._

_She just has to keep trying._

_So she tries again -- and again, and again. Her spins start to get a little erratic and sloppy with each failure, hat twirling farther away from her with each new attempt. But she’s unwilling to let it get away from her, not when this is all she has, so she’s quick to chase after it, knees aching as she shuffles across the glass floor. Again and it spins, again and nothing, again and she chases after it, follows the crack along the floor she’d made the last time she was in here, when she’d tried desperately to get out._

_And still, nothing._

_Regina huffs out a breath of annoyance and relaxes her grip on the hat, brow knit in frustration. Her magic works here, she knows it does. She’d told Blue as much the other day. But…. she’d also described it as instinctual, had confessed to her magic needing to mend. And Regina remembers, now, what Blue had offered her in turn. Her magic no longer has Gold’s bond to anchor her. It needs to mend before it can manifest, yes, but it also needs to do something more. It needs an anchor outside of her anger._

_The hat won’t work until she learns to control her magic again._

_She’s not getting out of here until she masters control, and to do that, she has to continue to cope._

_Resigned, Regina shifts into a sitting position with a sigh and sets the hat aside. Shoulders squared, palms facing up on her thighs, fingers flexing anxiously, and… she hesitates, eyeing her hands in apprehension. She knows that her magic is capable of mending -- she knows this, she’s been through this. But she hasn’t had to call it forth from a different anchor like this, not on purpose, not without instinct. She hasn’t had to relearn how to make magic manifest in a very, very long time, and not for the first time since all of this began, Regina finds herself feeling uncomfortably young._

_She is no one’s puppet anymore._

_Regina takes a breath to steady herself and narrows her eyes in concentration. Her magic may only be instinctual in here, but it is light and at least partially controlled compared to the way it sparks and surges when she’s awake -- when she’s not here. If she can manage to control her magic in here, maybe she can start to control it again when she’s awake, too._

_Maybe she can get out of here._

_For all that Regina knows she’s asleep, she feels more awake in here than she ever has before._

_Another breath and Regina tries to clear her mind in an effort to combat what she’s been taught. She doesn’t have to pull from her anger, doesn’t have to diminish her light. So she thinks of nothing, simply focuses on the upturned palm of her right hand and tries to visualize the sparks manifesting._

_She thinks of nothing, and she gets nothing in return._

_Beneath her, the floor grows warmer, and the visions in her head turn to fire._

_Anger._

_Regina sucks in a breath and closes her right hand into a fist. It had made sense to try with it, first -- it’s her dominant hand, after all -- but it’s also the hand that has spent decades clenched in anger, the hand that has conjured fire and snapped necks and ripped out hearts to turn them to ash. It’s steeped in muscle memory, her own practiced hand, which doesn’t exactly make it an ideal candidate for practicing something new -- something different. So Regina shifts her attention to her left hand, instead, and tries to clear her mind again._

_And still, nothing._

_She makes a displeased noise at the lack of activity, annoyance flaring up, and that’s all it takes for the sparks to catch her off guard and manifest. Her right hand moves to her abdomen before the gasp of surprise has even made its way out of her mouth, her body expecting pain that doesn’t actually come. Her skin stings and itches, and she cannot help but feel disappointed._

_“Be mindful of your emotions,” Blue had said._

_Regina doesn’t want her light to come from a place of darkness._

_So she takes a deep breath to steady herself and tries for a blank slate again, tries to think clearly before she attempts to make magic manifest again. Her magic is mending and unbound, searching for an anchor. But it’s… different in here than it is out there, when she’s awake. Her magic has never sparked in here, not like it has during her waking hours when her emotions get the better of her and she can’t control the surges. In here, her magic has always manifested as light, and again, Regina remembers what she’d told Blue._

_Her instinct has always been to protect._

_But even that has come from different places in the last couple of weeks: projecting shields to protect herself from Rumplestiltskin; sparks and beams of light to preserve the mirrors and prevent Henry from falling, falling, falling; lightning at the pier in protest of persistent pain; a bit tongue to keep everyone else out -- to keep them safe. Since breaking bonds and returning to the Hall of Mirrors, Regina’s instincts to protect have been a muddled mess of both selfless and giving proportions -- both light and dark. And it’s only then that she realizes what it is she actually wants. It’s not that she wants to avoid rooting her magic in darkness again. That’s unavoidable for a lot of reasons, the most important of which being that it goes against what she’s been trying to do -- to love herself in both light and dark._

_What Regina really wants is to not root her magic in here, and to do that means to anchor it elsewhere._

_Again, she closes her eyes and tries to focus, tries to recall the memories that have fueled her feeling and fire and prompted her into action. They come to her in fractured fragments -- the wall she’d erected to keep Emma safe; the burning itch to rip Gold’s throat out with her teeth in the clock tower; the obliteration of a creature made of ice and snow; a heart broken into two pieces in answer to desperate pleas; the touch of a mother and a monkey without its wings. Her palms are empty and she remembers how the dagger had felt in her grasp, remembers the itch and the temptation. She’d done good with it -- had saved her sister and provided freedom to the fairies -- but she’d also given into it, the cost of her freedom guilt with eyes that cast shadows. It’s her burden to bear, hers and hers alone and her choice, and it’s not the first time Regina has borne the burden of pain at the cost of protecting someone else. She’s done it time and time again with Snow, has bitten her tongue and kept secrets where Snow could not. Eighteen and atop a pedestal with a broken heart; twenty-one and bed-bound and bleeding out --_

_Magic manifests in her left hand, prompting her to open her eyes and gasp at the sight of a crudely formed lightning bolt in her hand. She’s not entirely sure what prompted it but she’s not entirely sure she cares right now, not when she’s managed to get control of her magic. She doesn’t manage to dampen the delight she feels at that, but where it’s extinguished her magic before, it fuels it now, frustration focusing her. She’s careful in her study of it, hand moving carefully in an effort to mimic the way she handles her fireballs. It’s less steady than her previous efforts have been with her other hand, with fire, but the spark still doesn’t extinguish._

_Hope fills her lungs, and Regina finds that she can breathe._

_Something flickers and shimmers in her peripheral vision -- light catching the glass of one of the mirrors, she thinks -- and she glances toward it without much thought, expecting to see her magic in the mirrors._

_Regina’s unable to stifled her startled gasp when she finally sees her own reflection in the mirror -- an antiquated memory manifesting as the image of her in her wedding dress. She flinches away from it and squeezes her eyes shut, throws her hands up instinctively to protect herself. The carefully formed bolt in her left hand streaks across the room at top speed and shatters the offending mirror, but it’s not until she smells smoke that Regina opens her eyes and realizes that magic has manifested out of her right hand as well._

_She’s accidentally set Jefferson’s hat on fire._

_She gasps out a breathless “No!” and reaches for the hat without thinking, desperate to salvage it, but she’s forced to pull her hand away so she doesn’t get burned. Panicked, she waves her hands over the flames in an effort to extinguish them. It doesn’t work -- again, and again, and she keeps failing. All too soon, there is nothing left but smoke and ash and a singed floor that is still unyielding, and Regina feels hope burn in her lungs. She can scarcely breathe and her hands are shaking as she reaches for the remnants, ash sifting between her fingers._

_She has lost her way out._

_There’s a voice in the back of her head that sounds like Henry telling her that this was never going to work. The hat doesn’t get her where she needs to go, doesn’t get her where everyone else has gone, doesn’t get her to the Red Room. Compared to magic beans and oceans and curses, the hat was what it’s always been -- a shortcut. It’s a means without price or consequence, and Regina knows all too well that all magic comes with a price._

_Villains take the easy way out._

_The cost of holding onto her darkness, it seems, is her sanity._

_There is glass stained with poison on the floor and there is dusted ash upon her hands, and Regina wonders when her efforts will be enough._

_“How extraordinary.”_

_Regina jumps a little, startled, before snapping her head up in the direction of the voice._

_Her heart stops._

_“Mother,” she breathes, transfixed at the sight of her mother in one of the mirrors._

_Mother doesn’t smile and there isn’t enough warmth in her eyes, but her voice sounds just as it did in death’s grip. “My dear daughter.”_

_Regina leans back on her heels and rests her palms flat against her thighs in an attempt to anchor herself. It takes her several tries to find her voice under Mother’s gaze, but still Regina cannot manage to look away. “You -- you’re dead,” she says, needing to hear it out loud. “You’re dead. You died in my arms.”_

_“Yes,” Mother says, the answer sudden and quick. “I did.” And not for the first time, Regina finds herself wondering if the dead can find their way in here. There’s a pause this time before Mother speaks again, weighted and calculating, and the way she tilts her head ever so slightly is enough to make Regina shrink away. But there is warmth in Mother’s eyes, now, and when she speaks again, her meaning is absolutely plain. “I remember.”_

_Mother had died with her heart in her chest, and her last words echo and vibrate like a lullaby in Regina’s ears._

_This would have been enough. You would have been enough._

_“M -- Mother?” Regina ventures, slowly pushing herself to her feet. She’s still cautious, still wary of what the mirrors have to offer, but this -- Mother -- could be as real as Regina had wanted Daddy to be, as real as she suspects Zelena was. This feels every bit like the goodbye she’d wanted a year and a half ago, and Regina feels very much awake. “Mother,” she says again, and this time it’s a request._

_“Regina,” Mother answers, and hearing her name is like hello._

_Mother has always been there when Regina has needed her most._

_Regina is not alone here, and for the first time, she feels a little bit safe._

_“Mother,” Regina says thickly, stepping through ash to move closer to the mirror. The tears that sting at her eyes as she slows to a stop are achingly familiar, and any traces of a smile falter and fade as Regina’s hand hovers over glass. There is ash on her hands and feet, traces of Daddy dead and gone and destroyed. “I -- I don’t --”_

_“It’s alright, dear,” Mother says, lifting her own hand to press it against her side of the glass. “You can’t hurt me in here.”_

_Regina’s face crumples into a broken smile at the reassurance. “Mother,” she says again, barely above a whisper. Regina’s fingertips graze glass, and it is just shy of enough. Mother’s hand rests opposite of hers against the glass, fingers splayed in mirrored fashion, and not for the first time, Regina wishes she could find comfort in her mother’s touch._

_Slowly, Mother’s gaze drifts beyond her, to the mess Regina has left on the floor of the hall. Regina doesn’t follow her gaze, though, doesn’t want to tear her eyes from the manifestation of a childhood wish, even if it’s only half real. And truthfully, Regina is tired of her focus revolving around her mess of a mind lately. She doesn’t want a magic fix, doesn’t want to talk about it._

_She just wants to be close to her mother._

_Mother's gaze lingers on the mess a little longer behind them before she averts it back to Regina. When Mother speaks again, it’s the last thing Regina expects to hear. “You could do incredible things,” she says, almost wistful, and Regina has to close her eyes to fight back tears. She’s heard the words a thousand times, always with an an ulterior motive, always with an edge of disappointment. But this -- this sounds nothing like it’s ever sounded before. This sounds more sincere than Regina can ever remember hearing her mother, and she finds that she no longer has to wonder what kind of person her mother would be if she’d kept her heart. “You could do incredible things,” Mother says again, “if you just tried a little harder.”_

_If you just let yourself._

_Regina’s blood runs cold -- Mother has not changed even in death._

_Her heart had been stained by darkness._

_And just like that, Regina’s walls go back up, emotions turning on a dime. The overwhelming instinct to protect herself is back in full force, easy to call upon now. She feels the twist in her gut without pain again, remembers how natural it had felt with Astrid, and this time she knows that her magic will not manifest unless she calls it forth._

_She is in control, not Mother -- not Cora._

_Slowly, Regina’s hand falls away from the glass._

_The edge of disappointment is back in Cora’s voice as Regina takes a step back, eyes still closed. “If you made the right choices --”_

_“Nothing I have ever done has been good enough for you, Mother,” Regina interjects sharply, refusing to let Cora gather momentum. She pauses for a moment, flexes her fingers to quell her sudden flare of anger and takes a deep breath to steady herself. She won’t open her eyes, won’t let Cora see into her soul again -- not like this, not here -- but standing here still leaves her as an open, easy target. She has to move, has to look away, has to put some distance between them. So she waits until she’s turned around to open her eyes again, chest feeling tight at the sight of debris in front of her. This is her doing -- her mess, her mind, her fault. It’s easy pickings for Cora, something to pick apart and use against her. It’s fuel for the fire Regina had ignited earlier, the desire to clean and organize and bring order to chaos, to put things right. And she hates it, she really does, hates that for all that it’s her choice, it’s one she’s making because of Cora._

_But it’s her choice, so Regina busies herself with distracted cleaning and resolutely does not look at the mirror Cora inhabits. She drags the empty cradle across the hall first and sets it upright, the instinct to mother and protect even stronger with Cora here, even though there isn’t a child in here. There’s not much to be done about the stains on the floor, but Regina takes a moment to find one of the larger shards of glass before sinking to her knees again. She uses it to sweep the ash and rotten apples and shards of glass into a concentrated pile. Cora makes a noise of derision at that, and the instinct to protect -- to defend -- tastes like poison on Regina’s tongue. “You know, Mother,” she says tersely, irritated, “the choices I’m making now -- maybe some of them are right, maybe some of them aren’t -- but they’re mine.”_

_“You foolish girl,” Cora laughs, and Regina’s hand tightens around the edges of the shard, eyes squeezing shut. “They’re mine.”_

_“No,” Regina protests vehemently, eyes snapping open. Glass digs into her palm and her hands are shaking but she will not look at Cora again, she won’t. She is asleep. She is thirty-eight. She is not eighteen. This is not the stables. The ash on the floor did not come from Daniel’s heart. “No, they’re not,” she says again, and she will not let Cora have control here, will not let her emotions get the better of her. Blue had refused her help because of Cora, because she was afraid of what Regina might become._

_With ash on her skin, Regina feels more at home than she has in weeks._

_“I may have ended up like you before, Mother, but I am not that person anymore,” she says. And it’s Henry’s voice in her ears, echoes from the town line -- you’re not a villain, you’re my mom; echoes from the steps in the foyer -- I know who you are and I know who you were and I love you. It’s Snow -- you are not all good and I am not all evil -- and it’s Robin -- hope is not something that would ever happen to a villain. And it’s Blue who comes back to her in hushed confessions -- you are not all dark. “I’m not you,” Regina says, hand relaxing around the shard of glass before setting it down and sitting up a little straighter. “And you are not really here.”_

_There’s a sudden chill on the back of her neck, then, and she can’t help shivering at the sensation. Cora speaks again, clearly undeterred, her voice suddenly much closer than before. “Of course I am,” she says. “You put me here. I’m in here because of you.”_

_Guilt cloaks Regina like an overbearing shadow, and it takes everything in her to draw from her core in order to keep her walls up, to protect herself against Cora’s accusations and manipulations. She half-glances over her shoulder back at the mirror, just enough that she can make out Cora’s blurry, looming figure, but still she refuses to make direct eye contact. She won’t give Cora the satisfaction. She won’t let Cora have control. “I didn’t kill you.”_

_“No,” Cora says, and for all that it’s an agreement, her tone suggests that it’s otherwise. “You just gave me my heart back. Look what good that did me.” And Regina knows what she’s trying to do, can feel tides of blame start to shift onto Mary Margaret -- onto Snow, onto the person responsible for Regina’s pain and --_

_No._

_No. Regina won’t let Cora do this, not again, not after everything she and Snow have been through, not after how far they’ve come. She closes her eyes and takes three deep breaths, and somewhere in the abyss of her mind, she hears the echo of Snow’s voice -- a memory never made._

_I won’t let you go._

_Eyes open again, and Regina’s walls go all the way back up._

_If Cora wants to get to Snow, she’ll have to go through Regina first._

_“Look at what it’s done to you,” Cora says, and Regina can’t help but laugh._

_“My heart is resilient,” she says, Snow’s words like a balm to Cora’s burns. “It gave me back the piece you took from me. It gave me --”_

_“What, love?” Cora laughs, scoffing. “You silly girl, I thought you’d grown out of this. You can’t possibly think that petty thief loves you,” Cora says, and something in Regina snaps._

_She is done. She is done with Cora, done with Gold, done with Blue -- done with the way they make her feel impossibly young again. She is done resisting the light, and she lets it pull her back into the dark._

_Regina is both light and dark, and Cora will not touch the people she loves._

_Slowly, Regina pushes herself to her feet and turns back around. She draws herself up to her full height -- as much as she can barefoot and pajama-clad, anyway -- and squares her shoulders, chin lifted and eyes meeting Cora’s evenly. “Robin loves me,” she says firmly. “I know he does.”_

_Cora’s skepticism is apparent in her expression. “After what you did to his wife?”_

_“Ex-wife,” Regina snaps, the Evil Queen creeping back into her voice, and yes, this is good. Darkness feels good like this, when it coils and comes from light, from the instinct to protect. Darkness is ash upon her hands and venom in her voice, and against Cora’s eyes, Regina does not feel weak. “And what I did was save her life,” Regina points out. “Twice.”_

_Cora shifts in the mirror, somehow moving impossibly closer to her side of the glass. Regina inhales sharply, muscles tensing in nervous anticipation, but she doesn’t move or look away, not yet. “You and I both know what really happened,” Cora says, dropping her voice, and no, they don’t. Cora shouldn’t, anyway, but then again, she’s always had a way of knowing about things she shouldn’t -- things Regina has tried very hard to keep from her. “Do you really think he doesn’t resent you for it?”_

_Insecurity coils in Regina’s gut, a precursor to the electric current that rips through her bones and she hates Cora for it, hates her, hates her, hates her. She won’t allow Cora to get to her like this, won’t allow her to see. Regina flexes her fingers again, trying desperately to keep the magic at bay as her breathing quickens. She breaks eye contact -- the only defense she has -- and drops her gaze to the crack along the floor, the one so like the one she’d made on the pier earlier this week. She’d reacted to Robin’s pain with her own, had scarce been able to breathe through his accurate accusations._

_And then she remembers his words -- there are nights I go to sleep wondering if you’re still going to be there when I wake up in the morning -- and Regina finds herself able to breathe._

_She meets Cora’s eyes again. “Robin is afraid of losing me,” she says, and it feels victorious. “He wouldn’t spend his nights sleeping next to me if he resented me.”_

_The narrowing of Cora’s eyes is barely discernable but it’s there, and with all of her walls up, Regina feels tired. “Is that what you tell yourself at night to help you sleep, dear?” Cora asks, and Regina feels sick to her stomach._

_Cora knows she’s asleep, and Regina is not safe here._

_So Regina turns away again, takes the only out she has in defense against her mother, but it only spurs Cora on. “Is that what you tell yourself to assuage your guilt?” Cora presses, and her voice settles like a shadow around Regina’s shoulders. Three deep breaths and it’s not helping, three deep breaths and her heart is racing, three deep breaths and there are cracks in her veneer. “Guilt is unnecessary, Regina,” she says, and Regina is not eighteen, she’s not, she’s not, she’s not. “It stems from love, and love is --”_

_“Love is not weakness, Mother!” Regina bites out viciously, nearly shouting it at her as she whirls back around and levels Cora with a look. There is guilt on her shoulders and ash on her hands and hope in her lungs. Her heart beats violently in her chest, the beat of a melody of marks murmurs have left behind. She can hear it in the echoes and feel it in her blood -- the love she bears for Henry and Robin and Roland and Snow and Emma -- and she is not weak._

_She can make this space safe._

_“Love is not weakness,” she says again, voice level and firm and raw. “You will never be able to convince me of that again.”_

_Cora takes another impossible step forward, still in the mirror, and this time Regina stumbles a step back. “You could make this so much easier on yourself,” Cora implores, clearly trying to sound like she cares, but all Regina hears is pity. And she won’t have that, won’t listen to it, not when there is proof on her hands and feet and the ground that taking the easy way out is what villains do. “You could make him forget,” Cora tries, and it is every bit the temptation she means it as. “If he remembers only you, you’ll hold his heart in your hands.”_

_“I doubt I’d ever forget meeting you,” Robin had said. “Use mine for the both of us.”_

_Regina’s heart beats resiliently in her chest, and she is beyond ready to wake up._

_“The thing is, Mother, I already do. I can’t steal something that’s been given to me,” she says, unable to fight back a smile. “Taking something from him? That’s what you would do.” Cora’s eyes turn black, and Regina thinks of Blue. “And I don’t want to be you.”_

_Cora smiles, and Regina forgets how to breathe._

_And then Cora takes a step out of the mirror._

_The memory is still fresh in Regina’s mind -- eighteen and bathed in a dress of white -- and she feels the familiar twist in her gut again, the instinct to protect, to force her own freedom. It had worked, back then, to use magic against Cora, and it had worked in here, to use magic against Rumplestiltskin. Cora takes another step out of the mirror and Regina’s hands go up, but she’s too late. Cora’s hands are moving faster than hers and she has magic in death, magic that calls forth vines that Regina still fears. Regina reacts on instinct, hands pushing out to project a shield, but her magic doesn’t come when she calls it._

_Regina does not run from monsters, but Cora is Mother._

_So Regina turns to run._

_The Hall of Mirrors shakes as if struck by an earthquake, causing the cradle to tip over and Regina to lose balance and stumble. She only just barely manages not to fall and finds herself rooted to the spot, too paralyzed with fear to keep running. A wild, gnarled mess of hedges spring up from the the hall floor and grow impossibly tall, effectively trapping her inside of the circle of mirrors. She only has memory and instinct to rely upon now, so she lifts her right hand to ready a fireball to burn her way out._

_But her fire dies out._

_A vine wraps around her wrist tight, yanking her arm back and forcing her to turn back around. Regina gasps in pain, arm struggling against the restraint for a moment before Cora speaks again. “You think it’s that easy to get rid of me?” she taunts, fingers flicking lazily to bind Regina’s other wrist. Regina’s chest feels tight and she cannot breathe and her magic will not come, why won’t it come? Her feet slip on the floor as the vines draw her closer to Cora, losing traction with each faltering step. “You’re stuck with me forever, darling, because I’m your mother,” Cora says, and Regina is eighteen, falling to her knees. “And I know best.”_

_And the eighteen-year-old -- the child in her -- knows what to do, here, knows how to make this stop. Hold still, stop fighting, tell Mother what she wants to hear. The pain will go away, Mother will let her go, Regina can get out, she can wake up, wake up, wake up. “Stupid girl,” Mother says, practically spitting it at her, “what makes you think I’d let you leave?”_

_Mother can see into her very soul, and Regina doesn’t have to see herself in the mirrors to see her own reflection._

_All she has to do is look at Mother._

_She is magic born of fire, dark and turning hearts to ash. She is bound to it -- to villainy born of darkness and the way she uses it to her advantage. She manipulates and she lies and she’s done this before, used these vines to restrain her own child and --_

_Henry._

_Electricity coils and sparks in her core, a pang of painful empathy that crawls up her arms and follows the twisting vines around her wrists. She lets out a cry of pain and just barely manages to bow her head, the restraints preventing her from doubling over the way her body wants to. But it’s pain she welcomes because it means that her magic is working again, even if it’s not entirely under her control, and her child gives her strength where she has none left. Another surge, a little stronger, a little more painful, but the sparks leave their mark this time, the vines starting to split open. So Regina thinks of Henry -- of the pain she’s inflicted and all she’s done to make things right -- and grits her teeth through the pain as magic rips through her again. “You know, Mother,” she bites out, eyes trained on the vines wrapped around her wrists. “I have learned a lot from you,” she admits, “but the only lesson I seem to be able to remember right now is that if you hold onto someone too hard, that doesn’t make them love you.”_

_Slowly, Cora’s fingers trail along the vines binding Regina’s wrists, her smile growing the closer they get. It’s only when Cora’s close enough -- barely a foot away and looming over her -- that she leans down and holds Regina’s chin firmly to force eye contact. “Have you ever considered,” Cora muses, “that perhaps you merely destroy everything you touch?”_

_Regina jerks her head away from Cora’s grasp, but she can feel the fight fading. She’s fatigued, arms aching and muscles burning; her skin sweats under firelight, her wrists rubbed raw. But she can’t give up -- not now, not when Henry wouldn’t give up on her. “You have no idea what I’m capable of, Mother,” she rasps. “Henry brought out my light, I’ve healed him with it --” She stops abruptly, gasping as magic coils up and out of her again, fraying the vines even more. “He had faith in me, Mother, even when you didn’t. He had faith in me even after I hurt him because he has the heart of the truest believer, and that?” she says, smiling up at Cora even as her body shakes with prolonged pain. “That’s something no one can touch or take from him -- not even me.”_

_Cora’s eyes narrow a little as she pulls back slightly, eyes flicking down as magic sparks at Regina’s core again before flickering out. There’s something almost… victorious in Cora’s eyes as she looks back up, and for what Regina is almost certain is the first time in her life, Cora almost looks happy._

_“Who said I was talking about Henry?”_

_The dead are heartless, and Cora -- Mother -- is no exception._

_Mother pulls her arm back, hand poised like she’s ready to rip out a heart, and all Regina has left is instinct._

_Protect._

_Like lightning, magic spirals up and out of her again, the vines finally snapping as she jerks her arms away. Fatigue forgotten, Regina’s hands move in front of her and project light magic without a second thought._

_And with empty hands, Mother falls back into darkness._

__

* * * * *

Regina wakes up to light.

She can still feel it, buzzing beneath the surface of her skin, but right now it stings at her eyes as it reflects off of the mirrors. She squeezes her eyes shut against the blinding bright and relies on her other senses for a moment to help root in her the moment -- to help her be mindful. She can hear the gentle trilling of birds, muffled and echoing, and her brow knits in confusion. Their song is a melody -- a hauntingly familiar lullaby -- but Regina can’t put words to the tune, doesn’t have the voice to hum along. Fatigue starts to settle in again, muscles aching; her skin is still slick with sweat, silk sticking to her body.

“Regina?” a voice prompts, and it takes her a moment to place it. Robin -- it’s Robin, what is Robin doing here? “Love, you’re trembling,” he murmurs. And he’s right, she is, she’s shaking all over, body curled up tight. But she doesn’t understand how he knows, how he can possibly see her like this. He’s not here, he’s -- “My love,” he says again, gentle and warm and full of concern. She starts a little when he rests a hand on her arm, his touch startlingly tactile. She shouldn’t be able to feel him, not here, not in the Hall of --

No.

Quickly, Regina blinks her eyes open and squints against the offending light, vision blurry and swimming for a moment before finally clearing. Robin’s face slowly comes into view, vivid in intricate details and fuzzy around the edges, and Regina’s eyes open the rest of the way.

_No._

She can scarcely breathe at the realization, body shaking even harder as she starts to panic. She props herself up a little, reaches for him and feels the hair on his arm, the warmth of his skin. Robin is real, he’s here, he’s in the Hall of Mirrors, no, no, no. Regina has tried so hard to keep him from here, has tried to protect him against all of this, against Mother, against -- “Hey, hey,” Robin says, gripping her arm with one hand and tucking her hair behind her ear with the other. “It’s alright. I’m right here. You’re safe,” he assures her. “You’re awake.”

His reassurance soothes her a little; she’s not breathing quite so hard, now, but she grips his arm a little tighter, anchoring herself. She’s slow to tear her eyes away from his, slow to look down at herself and realize that she’s lying down, slow to cast a glance around and realize that they’re in the bedroom.

Regina is home, and she is awake.

Cora had known she’d been asleep.

Regina’s stomach churns unpleasantly and she closes her eyes against it, suddenly unable to swallow around the thickness in her throat. “Regina?” Robin prompts, hand cradling her jaw and god, that’s too much against her skin, too close to her throat. “What’s the matter?” he asks, thumb sweeping gently across her skin and it’s still too much, too hot against her sweat-slick skin. She grips his wrist too-tight to still his movement and pulls his hand away from her face, eyes still squeezed shut. Nausea washes over her like a wave as she sits up a little more quickly than she’d intended, stomach lurching this time. “What --”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” she gasps, gagging a little as her stomach turns over more forcefully. She presses the back of her hand to her mouth to suppress the urge to vomit and exhales sharply through her nose, body still shaking. But the effort does little to quell the overwhelming wave of nausea and she gags again. It’s unavoidable -- she’s _going_ to vomit next time she gags, and she’d really rather be in the bathroom for it, so it’s with awkward limbs that she kicks the covers off and stumbles into the bathroom.

She’s thankful for the plush rug on the floor as she sinks to her knees, hands still shaking as she lifts the toilet lid and curls over the bowl. She’s sweating in spades, now, simultaneously overwarm and freezing as she grips the edge of the bowl in anticipation. It doesn’t take long; her stomach lurches again within seconds, causing her to empty its contents into the toilet. She barely has time to draw breath before she vomits again; a gasping breath and again; once more and tears sting at her eyes.

And then Robin’s hands are on her, and it’s over.

He sweeps her hair back for her, first, his touch gentle and barely there. But it helps; it takes away some of the stifling heat that’s causing her to sweat profusely and gives her enough presence of mind to close the lid of the toilet. She’s still shaking -- _badly_ \-- and all she wants to do is rest her cheek against the cool porcelain and close her eyes. But Robin’s hands are on her again -- this time a gentle nudging at her arm -- and Regina is forced to rub at the tears welling in her eyes in order to look at him properly. “Here,” he murmurs, holding out a glass of water in offering. “Drink.” Regina eyes it with apprehension; she’s wary of putting anything back _in_ her body right now, given the circumstances. “It’ll help,” Robin promises, and somewhere in the back of her mind, the logical part of Regina _knows_ that, but her mind hasn’t exactly been a safe place lately.

Still, Robin is patient, doesn’t press her further, just sits and waits for her to take it. And it does take her a moment or two before she trusts her stomach enough to try. She sips slowly at first, still wary, but the water is a cool, soothing balm against her parched lips, a mild buffer against the bitter taste of bile on her tongue. She closes her eyes as she lifts the glass to drink the rest of it down, humming in gratitude --

She starts and sputters when Robin grabs at her arm, the half-full glass tumbling to the rug beneath them and spilling the rest of the water. She doesn’t have time to dwell on it, though, doesn’t have time to ask questions, because the object of Robin’s gaze is absolutely clear.

Regina’s wrist still bears a mark.

Robin’s touch turns gentle within seconds, his brow knit in concern. “You didn’t have these when you went to sleep last night,” he says, voice uneven. “How did this happen?”

Arms shaking again, Regina glances down at her other arm and finds a nearly identical mark on her wrist -- the deep striations of skin rubbed red and raw. Her breath catches as the realization dawns on her -- the vines, they’d come from being bound by the vines -- and fear grips Regina’s soul like an iron vice.

Mother had been real.

Regina pulls out of Robin’s grasp with a gasp, hands fumbling to push the lid of toilet back up in time for her to vomit into it again. Sick, sick, Mother has made her _sick_. Mother knew she was asleep. Mother knew the right buttons to push. Mother -- Cora, Cora, _Cora_ had magic in death, used it to bind Regina tight. Cora had left her mark, Cora _always_ leaves a mark. Cora’s heart had been stained by darkness. Cora had reached for Regina’s heart, had reached for her, had reached for her child --

Stomach settling again, Regina lifts her head slightly as Robin’s hand finds the small of her back, fingers tracing the notches of her spine. Her chest feels tight as she shuts the lid again and pushes away from the toilet, mind spinning.

Cora had reached for her child. Cora had reached for _her_ child. Cora had reached for her _child_.

Regina’s mouth goes dry. “That’s… not possible,” she rasps quietly, tongue tacky and throat raw.

“What’s not possible?” Robin prompts, hand stilling on her back.

Slowly, Regina lifts her head the rest of the way to look at him. The thought is small and with barely any foundation, but it’s _there_ , lingering and absolutely not fleeting. Mother had made her sick and Cora had reached for her child, and Regina’s body aches in ways it hasn’t since she was twenty-two. She remembers the way it had felt, back then, remembers feeling uncomfortable in her own skin, remembers herself in mirrors, remembers being unable to hide from truth. The memory causes her to inhale sharply now, lungs _burning_ with it, and Regina cannot find her voice.

“Darling,” Robin tries, moving a little closer and ducking his head down to get a better look at her. “Darling, _talk to me_ ,” he presses, hands gently encircling her wrists. The touch stings a little, her skin still sensitive from the marks Mother’s magic had left behind, but she doesn’t pull away. He’s exceedingly gentle in his touch, fingers taking care not to graze over the irritated parts of her skin too much as he examines her wrists. “Henry said to expect burns, not… _this_ ,” he says, nodding at her wrists. She can see the fear there, etched into his irises, and she remembers what she’d told Mother -- _Robin is afraid of losing me_. “We’re at the point where this is making you _physically ill_ ,” he points out, and he’s clearly scared for her -- has been for weeks, if not longer. And she understands, she really does. She’s been trying to protect him for nearly as long -- him and Henry and Emma and Mary Margaret. She’s been trying to keep him out of this, out of the Hall of Mirrors, away from the twisted torment of her mind. “ _Please_ , talk to me,” he implores. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s happening.” And it’s the pier all over again -- _you won’t let me help you, why won’t you let me help you_ \-- and Regina has not asked for it, hasn’t asked for anything other than his presence to anchor her. She’s kept him at arm’s length for good reason -- _don’t shut him out, this isn’t just about you_ \-- and carved a jagged line between them. It’d followed her into the hall, a visible crack along her mind that Mother had crossed.

Mother had known she was asleep, but Mother knew the _truth_.

Mother had been real, and more than ever, Regina’s instinct to protect coils and flares.

She can’t tell Robin the truth, not yet, not until she knows it for herself -- not until she knows what’s real.

Carefully, she maneuvers her hands to grasp Robin’s -- to anchor herself -- and closes her eyes, exhaling slowly. “I need more time.”

A beat, and then Robin’s tugging his hands out of her grasp so quickly that she’s startled when his hands reach up to cradle her face. She inhales sharply at the move, eyes snapping open, and though his touch is gentle, his words are anything but. “And what happens when you run out?” he bites out, pain evident in his eyes. All of the breath leaves her at once at that, but before she can do so much as breathe his name, he speaks again. “ _Don’t_ do that,” he says emphatically. “Do not try to placate me, Regina. You’re injured. You’re _sick_ ,” he says, and no, she’s not, not if her suspicions are correct, but there is such kindness in his voice, such fear that she thinks there may be something he’s not telling her, as well. “What happens if I can’t help you?”

She swallows thickly and grips one of his wrists to re-anchor herself. “You _are_ helping me --”

“You call this helping?” he asks incredulously, pulling his hands away. “Sitting idly by while you get sick and wake up with marks on your arms? Watching you lose control of your magic? Watching you wake up screaming? Lying in that bed waiting for you to wake up from something you won’t talk about? Waking up in that bed to find you _gone_ \--”

“That was beyond my control --”

“That’s not the _point_!” he shouts, his voice echoing through a house empty save for the two of them. It’s one of a small handful of times she’s ever heard him raise his voice like this, ever heard him this agitated, but it’s enough to give her pause. “If you don’t let me help you, Regina, then I’m _useless_ ,” he says emphatically. “All I’m left with is an empty bed and time on my hands and I _won’t_ go back to that, Regina. I won’t go back to --” He cuts himself off abruptly at that, inhaling sharply and snapping his eyes shut. His hand flexes anxiously, muscles tense, and the way his lips clamp together tells Regina all she needs to know.

Robin’s been keeping secrets of his own.

And all at once, she remembers the night all of this started. She’d woken from seeing Rumplestiltskin in the Hall of Mirrors and thought it’d been a dream; it was only after Robin had woken in a near-panic that she’d realized the truth. He’s been afraid of losing her before she was ever really gone, and it occurs to Regina now that there may be more to it than he’s let on.

In their fear, they’re _suffocating_.

Ache weighs down Regina’s chest and fights against the coiling instinct to protect. She’s going to have to tell him at some point -- sooner rather than later, if her suspicions are correct -- but telling him means putting him at risk. And more than anything, she wants to protect him, to protect Henry, to protect her --

 _Not yet_ , her instinct tells her, and somewhere in her, light and dark find compromise.

Not yet.

Slowly, Regina reaches out an unsteady hand. It’s not until her fingertips brush against the back of Robin’s hand that he reacts, inhaling sharply and jerking his hand away with enough force to startle her. He’d done nearly the same thing, on the pier, and Regina remembers how _poorly_ the rest of that conversation had gone. She doesn’t want to revisit it now, doesn’t want to talk about it until she knows more, until she has something to tell. All Regina has to offer right now is the same thing she’d offered on the pier, the same thing she’s been asking of him from the start -- _I’m here_.

Judging by the look in Robin’s eyes, she’s not sure that’s going to be enough anymore.

The pain in his eyes darkens with something familiar, something Regina can’t quite place, but he barely looks at her for more than a moment before he’s exhaling sharply and pushing himself to his feet. She’s slow to follow him, startled and still feeling a bit sick, and by the time she manages to catch up to him in the bedroom, he’s already half-dressed. “What are you doing?” she asks, mouth feeling suddenly dry again.

“I’m going out,” he says sharply. “Out, outside. I’m going for a walk. I need -- I need some air.”

Regina grips the door frame of the bathroom hard for purchase and tries not to lean against it. “You’re leaving,” she says, watching him loop and buckle his belt. “You’re --” And again, ache fights against her instincts. She’s kept him safe by pushing him away -- a wall and chains during Shattered Sight; a bit tongue to keep him out of mirrors now. But he’d be safe with her, would have been safer with her when Maleficent was on the move, could be safe with her now if he’d just _stay_. She can protect -- that much her magic has made clear to her -- but she can’t do it if he _leaves_. “Wait,” she gasps, releasing her grip on the frame and moving across the bedroom to follow him to the door. “Wait, just --”

“Don’t,” Robin says again, holding up a hand as he tugs his shirt on the rest of the way. “Regina, please, I just… need some air.” He hesitates for a moment as she slows to a stop next to him; he won’t look her in the eye. “Please don’t ask me to stay right now.”

Regina works her jaw in agitation, tears stinging at her eyes. “I’m just trying to protect you,” she breathes, and it’s more of an admission than she feels safe making.

Robin does meet her eyes at that, and there’s not pity there, but… empathy, she thinks. “By shutting me out?” he says, and it’s absolutely not a question. Every instinct she has tells her to break eye contact, to look away, that it’s the only way to protect him, to keep him at arm’s length. But it’s what she’d done to Cora, in the Hall of Mirrors, and Robin is not her enemy.

Robin sees into her very soul, and still she cannot manage to look away.

Not yet, but soon.

She doesn’t start when he touches her this time, doesn’t so much as breathe as he pulls her flush against him, lips pressing a kiss against her ear. “Then grant me the same license,” he murmurs. “Right now, this is my way of protecting you.” It’s another thing she doesn’t understand, another thing she doesn’t know. She grips his arm tight as he tries to pull away, desperate for an anchor to help her make sense of _something_ , but Robin gently pulls her hands away. “Regina, please,” he says again, looking back at her. “Let me go.”

_If you hold onto someone too hard, that doesn’t make them love you._

She stumbles back a step, rubbing uncomfortably at one of her wrists and wincing a little as pain blossoms from her own touch and _perhaps you merely destroy everything you touch_. Instinct wins out, ache feeling useless in her chest. “Go,” she instructs, the command coming out a bit harsher than she’d intended. “You know how to find your way home.” The pain and empathy in Robin’s eyes gives way to affection, and even in the dark, Robin still sees _her_.

The second he’s out of the room, Regina sinks down on the bed and exhales slowly. She’s alone now -- house empty with the boys gone -- and she can feel herself getting more anxious by the minute, mind buzzing with vision of mirrors and Mother and _maybe_. _Be mindful of your emotions_ , Blue had said, and in Robin’s absence, Regina needs an anchor. With still shaking hands, she reaches over and pulls open the top drawer of her nightstand, fingers fumbling as she pulls out her prize. Page twenty-three is still folded and creased and imperfect -- a page without a home -- but it holds Regina’s hope. Robin will come back; she has faith.

Still, it stings when the front door downstairs slams shut, the sudden noise causing her to start a little and drop the page back into the drawer. Instinctively, she moves to wrap her arms around her middle and god, even _that_ feels different now. At least, she _thinks_ it feels different, but her mind may very well be playing tricks on her, now that the seed’s been planted, and Regina finds that she cannot trust her own judgement.

Regina is awake and alone, and she needs _help_.

Clumsily, she reaches for her phone on the nightstand, one arm still wrapped tightly around her middle. She barely manages to keep her hand steady long enough to find the number she’s looking for, breathing shallow as the phone rings and rings. When the person on the other end answers, Regina finally manages to find her voice. “Emma,” she says, “I need you to do me a favor.”

* * * * *

As far as treasured possessions go, Regina Mills has always had very few. The items she’s held dear -- the ring Daniel had given her, the apple tree now planted outside of her office, Henry’s handprint set in ceramic -- have only held value to her because of who they’ve represented. But her most treasured possessions, perhaps, have always been something intangible: secrets. She’d learned the art of using them as currency from both her mother and from Rumplestiltskin, learned how to use them to lie and manipulate, learned how to use them to her advantage. But secrets have not always been dark, to Regina, and it’s those -- the love she’d had for Daniel, the ease with which she’s made sacrifices for Henry, the hope that burns bright because of Robin -- that she values as good and light, that she treasures most. Those have always been of most value to her and it’s why she’s always kept them to herself. If they remain secrets, they’re not prone to the rotten destruction of the world. If they remain secrets, they remain safe.

If they remain secrets, they remain precious.

And this? This may be one of her most precious of all.

The first time Regina had held it, she hadn’t even known; she’d had to be told she possessed it to begin with. The second time she was a little wiser, but it’d taken her longer to figure it out on her own. The third time, she’d been almost relieved to release it almost immediately, desperate to share in the hope that the truth would somehow make things better. But the fourth and last time, Regina had held onto that secret for as long as she could without arousing suspicion. She’d been burned enough at that point to know that nothing good would come from sharing the last shred of hope she had with the rest of the world, so she’d kept it to herself and clung tight.

_If you hold onto someone too hard, that doesn’t make them love you._

In her seat at the bar at Granny’s, Regina inhales sharply and very deliberately keeps her hands pressed flat against the countertop. It’s taking everything in her not to fidget -- to wrap her arms around her middle or let her fingers linger, to keep from rubbing the marks on her wrists now hidden by the sleeves of her sweater. Emma’s late -- she was supposed to be here nearly a half hour ago -- and the waiting is making Regina restless. She’s on edge enough as it is, nerves frayed almost to the point of being completely shot, but the bustle and noise of the crowd in the diner has been surprisingly helpful. It’s unusually crowded even for a Saturday morning -- Regina figures the cold, overcast weather is to blame for that -- but she finds that it makes a suitable replacement for an anchor, at least until Emma arrives. Keeping her walls up amongst a crowd of strangers is something she’s had years of practice at, something she’s good at, and it helps to center her, to keep her in control.

Slowly, Regina closes her eyes and tries to concentrate. She is awake. She is in control. She won’t be alone for long. Emma will be here soon, and then Regina will have to loosen her grip on her secret. Her walls will come down, she’ll have to start letting people in -- Robin, Henry, _Snow, mirrors, Mother, her time will run out and_ \--

“Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat?” Regina starts a little in her seat and opens her eyes, inhaling sharply as she tries to regain composure before meeting Ruby’s eyes. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” Ruby says by way of apology.

“I’m… fine,” Regina says, and it’s mostly a lie, but it’s one she needs right now. “And yes, I’m sure,” she adds, answering Ruby’s initial question. Her stomach is more settled than before, but she still feels uneasy. She’s only felt brave enough to down a few mugs of decaf tea with ginger. Her third mug sits empty in front of her now, teabag damp and cold, and Regina contemplates whether or not she’ll have time for another before Emma arrives.

“Do you want another refill?” Ruby offers, nodding at the mug. The bell above the front door of the diner rings before Regina has a chance to answer, and it’s finally -- blissfully -- Emma who comes walking through. There’s a paper bag in her hand, which leads Regina to believe that Emma’s done the favor Regina’s asked of her, but she looks… annoyed, which Regina wasn’t expecting. Emma barely acknowledges her beyond a glance, though, weaving her way through people and making a beeline for the bathrooms.

Confused and more than a little concerned, Regina briefly turns her attention back to Ruby. “No, thank you,” Regina declines, nodding at her empty mug. “Keep my tab open, though, Ruby. I’ll be back to pay before I leave.” Ruby nods in agreement, looking a little confused herself (and maybe, the back of Regina’s mind supplies, there’s something else there, in her eyes) as Regina grabs her purse and slides off of the bar stool to make her own path through the diner to follow Emma.

The bathroom door has barely swung shut behind Regina before she starts talking. “What took you so long?” she hisses. “I’ve been waiting for you for nearly a half hour.”

“Okay, _you_ , lady, are _so_ lucky that I know how much you’re probably freaking out about this right now because otherwise you would owe me _big time_ ,” Emma says, voice pitching a little high for a moment before lowering to a more discreet volume. Regina glances around the bathroom quickly to ensure that they’re really alone -- she can’t quite see under the stalls for feet, but she _thinks_ they’re alone, anyway -- but Emma isn’t deterred. “Do you know who was at the pharmacy when I made this purchase? _Leroy_ ,” she hisses. “I wouldn’t be surprised if half the town knew about this by the time I leave here, not to mention _my parents_ \-- who I am not at all prepared to have this conversation with, by the way. And Killian -- god, I hope I can get to Killian before he hears this from someone else because I do not want him getting any _ideas_.”

Bristling, Regina folds her arms over her chest and tries not to level a glare at Emma. “I’m perfectly aware of how the rumor mill works in this town, Emma. This is why I asked you to do this for me.”

“ _Why_?” Emma asks, eyes narrowing a little. “You normally don’t give a crap what other people think about you. If you wanted a little discretion, Granny’s is not exactly the first place I would pick.”

“I’d just… like to keep this between us until I know anything for sure,” Regina snaps, snatching the paper bag out of Emma’s hand. She moves to the loveseat in the corner with a huff and sets her purse down. She dumps out the contents of the bag, fingers fumbling to open the box and pull out the folded up paper inside.

They’re both quiet for a long moment before Emma speaks up again, voice a little gentler this time. “You really _are_ freaked out about this,” she observes. “What… exactly is going on? What aren’t you telling me?”

And it’s Mother Regina thinks of, Mother and mirrors and marks on her wrists. “I don’t really want to talk about it,” she says thinly, nose wrinkling as she tries to focus on the words on the page in front of her.

“C’mon,” Emma insists, leaning against the edge of one of the sinks. “I’m risking my _virtue_ over this. The least I can ask in return is a little insight. Don’t just throw up another wall with me again.” Regina snaps her head over to meet Emma’s eyes, words lingering like an echo in the air. And there are mirrors beyond Emma, mirrors that are unbroken, _mirrors to act as portals and prisons, mirrors to reflect Regina’s very soul back at her and follow me, end up like me_ \-- “Regina,” Emma says softly, and Regina inhales sharply, gaze dropping to where Emma’s hand is now resting on her arm and when did she cross the room? “Hey, breathe. Sit,” Emma suggests, using her grip to guide Regina down onto the loveseat. “Whatever you’re freaking out about, we can handle this.”

Regina exhales shakily when she sits, setting the paper down between their legs and running her palms flat against her thighs. She is awake. She is not alone. Emma is here to _help her_ , Emma’s hand has not left Regina’s arm, Emma is -- Emma is _anchoring_ her, and Regina finds she can breathe a little easier at the realization. So she gives herself a moment or two to make sure she’s really calm and centered before she gently pries Emma’s hand from her arm. “I’ve had… a lot on my plate lately,” she says slowly, the closest thing to an admission she’s willing to make. “I didn’t even think this was possible until this morning, and then I got sick, among… other things. And after I called you, I flipped through my planner and realized that I hadn’t…” She tapers off and gestures vaguely, hoping Emma gets the picture.

“How long?”

Regina draws in a breath and hesitates, shifting uncomfortably on the loveseat. She _knows_ how ridiculous this is going to sound. “Early July?”

Emma, to her credit, looks properly incredulous at the admission. “That’s more than three months! How have you not noticed that before now?”

Regina tries and fails to tamp down a flicker of annoyance even though she _knows_ Emma’s not being accusatory. “I was a little preoccupied this summer, in case you forgot,” she says dryly, snapping a little. “I had a dragon to slay, remember?”

“Yeah, I know, I’ve done it,” Emma reminds her, sounding just as dry. “It didn’t actually take all that long.” Regina fixes her with a _look_. “Sorry,” Emma says, shifting so she can angle her body to face Regina a little better. “But that doesn’t actually answer my question. What is it, exactly, that has you freaking out this badly?”

Regina softens around the edges a little but looks away, still uncomfortable with the idea of sharing. Leaning against the back of the loveseat, Regina wraps her arms around her middle and tries very hard not to focus on how different it feels. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath to steady herself, and then another. “I… didn’t exactly plan this,” she admits. “I’m not prepared for it. The timing isn’t… great,” she finishes, and god, if that isn’t the understatement of the year.

Emma’s quiet for a moment before she speaks again. “Is this about your magic mending after what happened with Gold or is it about the fact that you’re having trouble sleeping?”

Regina’s eyes snap open. Emma _knows_ \-- or she knows something, at least -- and Regina is not particularly thrilled about it. She’s been incredibly careful with whom she entrusts pieces of her problems, been scant on details and deliberately tried to keep certain people from knowing too much about her predicaments. There are only a handful of people Emma could’ve gotten her information from and even fewer who would probably share. But there’s one person in particular who has never quite held the same regard for secrets and discretion that Regina has, and it’s the person Regina had trusted first. “Your mother never could keep a secret, could she?” she drawls, staring straight ahead.

“Actually,” Emma says, sounding almost amused, “that was all Henry.”

Regina sucks in a breath, chest feeling a little tight. She’s tried so _hard_ to keep Henry out of this, to limit what he knows, what he sees and hears. Henry knows more pieces of the whole than perhaps anyone else right now, though, except for Robin -- her trips to the Netherworld, the effects they’re having on her ability to sleep well, her issues with magic. For all that she’s done her best to keep Henry from her mess, he and Robin still know more than anyone else, and the fact that Henry is confiding in Emma makes Regina’s heart twist with ache. “How much did he tell you?” she asks quietly, glancing at Emma out of the corner of her eye.

“Not much else, really,” Emma admits with a shrug. “I asked, but he wouldn’t really give me any details.”

The corner of Regina’s mouth twitches upward as she fights the temptation to smile. This -- _this_ is one of the reasons she loves her son so fiercely. It’s not just that he can read her like an open book, not just that he’s respecting her wishes to keep quiet about this without her even having to ask him. It’s that Henry is _smart_ ; he knows how dangerous too much information can be in the hands of the wrong people. And while Emma certainly isn’t any version of that, the fact that Henry is still keeping Regina’s secrets for her tells her all she needs to know about his intentions.

He’s trying to protect her.

God, she loves her son.

Still, she thinks she owes Emma this, at least -- reassurance that the secrets Henry’s keeping aren’t hurting him or anyone else. “There’s, um -- there’s not a whole lot he knows beyond that,” Regina explains, clearing her throat. “A little, perhaps, but not anywhere near the whole story.”

“So what _is_ the whole story?” Emma prompts, clearly not willing to let the subject drop.

Regina exhales sharply through her nose and looks away again, gaze dropping to the bag and box and paper between them. Emma isn’t nearly as annoyingly persistent as the rest of her family, and while it’s a trait Regina can admire at times with Henry, it’s not one she has the patience to tolerate right now. Her argument with Robin this morning is still a fresh, untended wound, and Regina doesn’t not have the energy to put up enough walls to keep Emma’s requests for more information at bay. “The whole story,” Regina sighs, fingers tracing the letters on the outside of the box, “is that I can’t use my magic, I didn’t sleep well last night, I got into an argument with Robin this morning, and this is honestly the last thing in the world I thought I’d be dealing with today.”

A beat, and then, “You’re unhappy.”

Regina’s fingers still over the box, something in her gut twisting unpleasantly. That’s -- the accusation feels… wrong. Inaccurate. Her instincts tell her that much, at least, and she still trusts herself enough to believe them. She’s not… unhappy at the prospect she’s facing. She can’t be, not when it makes her think of Henry’s hips bumping against hers at the kitchen island while they bake, not when it makes her think of the way Roland’s fingers curl against her chest when she reads to him at night. She’s never been unhappy at the prospect becoming a reality, not even with Leopold. Her instincts settle her nerves but leave fatigue in their wake, and Regina is left remembering just how _tired_ she really is. “I’m overwhelmed,” she supplies, palm resting flat against the top of the box. “And that’s not going to even _begin_ to go away until I deal with this.”

She can feel Emma’s eyes on her, knows Emma’s studying her, trying to read between the lines, trying to figure something out. But the silence that lingers while Regina waits for Emma to speak is surprisingly comfortable, at least. Henry may be able to read Regina like an open book, but Emma knows when to stop trying. “Go ahead,” Emma says finally, gesturing at the box between them. “I’ll wait here.”

So Regina slips her fingers into the box and procures one of the items inside, carrying it with her into one of the stalls. She tries to make short work of it, tries not to think too much about what she’s actually doing right now. She’s too rattled, too rooted in her emotions to be detached and methodical about it, but she’s mindful enough that she can distract herself with other thoughts. The three cups of tea seem to be serving her well, at least, and she’ll have to remember to duck back into the diner to close out her tab with Ruby before she leaves. She’s a little surprised she and Emma haven’t been interrupted so far, with how busy and crowded the diner is today, but she’s not complaining. The privacy they’ve managed to maintain so far is something Regina is exceedingly grateful for, and she only hopes it manages to hold out until they’re ready to leave.

When she emerges from the stall, she finds Emma leaning against the edge of one of the sinks again. Regina still tries to focus on the task at hand and tries to be methodical about it, not quite ready to look Emma in the eye again. She sets the stick on the sink behind the faucet and tries very hard to ignore it for the time being, focusing on washing her hands instead. She’s still got soap on her hands when Emma starts talking again. “Before,” Emma starts slowly, and in her peripheral vision, Regina can tell that Emma’s not really looking at her, either. “You said before that you didn’t think… _this_ was possible until this morning. Why?”

Regina stiffens, breath caught in her chest. The edges of her sleeves are starting to get wet and she should really push them up, but after Robin’s reaction to her wrists this morning, Regina doesn’t really want to deal with anyone else noticing her marred skin. It’s one of many things Regina isn’t really ready or comfortable with talking about right now -- _this_ being one of them. At least… not now. Not yet. Not until she knows for sure what she’s dealing with. Not until she’s made sense of something. And, well, frankly, her history is really none of Emma’s business -- not this part of it, anyway. “I’m not really comfortable --”

“Look, Regina,” Emma interjects with a sigh, shifting enough so that Regina knows Emma’s looking at her properly again. “I know you like to play things close to the vest, okay? I know you don’t like opening up to people -- least of all me.” And Regina’s hands are clean but she cannot bring herself to turn off the water, too transfixed on Emma’s accurate accusations to move. Emma doesn’t do this very often, doesn’t _push_ like this, and if she’s back to reading Regina the way that Henry does, Regina can only imagine where this conversation is going to go. “But I remember how freaked out I was when I found out about Henry,” Emma says, and it’s not what Regina had been expecting, not at all. It’s surprisingly gentle and kind, and between the lines, Regina can hear what Emma’s leaving unsaid -- _I understand_. “All I wanted back then was to just not be alone. I’m just… trying to be the person I didn’t have, back then,” Emma explains. Regina’s mind echoes with words Emma hasn’t spoken -- _follow me, end up like me_ \-- but Regina is not afraid. “I’m just trying to be here for you. Can you just… let me do that?”

 _Be here_.

It’s what Regina’s asked of Robin, the last couple of weeks while her soul has been drifting. It’s what he’s asked of her almost since they first met -- to stay, to not give up.

Regina is not alone.

She doesn’t have to keep shutting people out.

Slowly, she reaches out to twist the handle to turn the water off. She takes a moment to think as she dries her hands, takes a moment to find a way to turn memories into morphemes without going into too much detail, without making it more painful to relive than it already is. The paper towel is still in her hand, crumpled up and damp when she grips the edge of her own sink.

She resolutely does not look at her reflection in the mirror.

Regina takes a breath to steady herself, and then another. She doesn’t close her eyes, knows what she’ll see if she does. “Your mother is an only child, you know,” she remarks. “I was eighteen when I married her father. He was terrified that something would happen to her. I was young and in good health, so it was expected that I would…” She tapers off, voice lost to her as she struggles to find a way to explain.

Emma speaks up before Regina has to. “What,” Emma guesses, sounding a little derisive, “produce a back-up heir?” Regina huffs out a breath at the crude phrasing before her lips thin into a line and she inclines her head in affirmation. “Jesus,” Emma breathes. “I forgot how totally warped the Enchanted Forest used to be.”

Regina shifts uncomfortably and straightens up a little, relinquishing her grip on the sink and tossing the paper towel into the garbage. “It was common practice there, back then,” she says, and it’s absolutely an excuse, a justification, but it’s one she has to take in spite of how much it makes her skin crawl. Agreeing with Emma outright right now will make anything else impossible.

Emma, to her credit, doesn’t try to press the issue or argue with her. Regina’s sure it’ll come later -- another day, perhaps -- but she’s grateful that Emma is able to read her well enough to know when to stop pushing. “But nothing ever came of it,” Emma points out.

And at that, Regina takes a measured breath and chances a half-glance in Emma’s direction. “...Not for a lack of trying.”

It doesn’t take long for Emma to pick up on the implication. “You’ve been pregnant before,” she says, and her voice is _quiet_. A beat, and then, “You miscarried.” Regina shifts her weight from one leg to the other, uncomfortable, and she resolutely does _not_ look at the pregnancy test perched on the bathroom sink in front of her. “More than once?” Emma prompts after a moment.

It’s more than Regina feels comfortable sharing with _anyone_ , really, too many details about pain she’s been trying to suppress all morning long. She exhales sharply and turns away from the mirror, leaning against her own sink the way Emma’s doing next to her. She grips the edges of the sink too-tight again and trains her gaze on the floor, trying desperately not to close her eyes and get lost in the memory. “Four times by the time I was twenty-two,” she admits quietly. “Always early. The last time, I’d barely started to show before it happened. That one was the worst. A lot of blood. A lot -- a lot of pain.” And she feels _uncomfortably young_ in that moment, more in her skin than she really wants to be. She remembers feeling like a prisoner in her own body, remembers the internal conflict with each discovery, remembers the way each loss had _fractured the magic within her, remembers disappointment in the eyes of men and feeling like she couldn’t breathe and_ \--

“Hey,” Emma says warmly, fingers brushing lightly against the back of Regina’s hand. It’s still startling -- Regina’s not sure that can be helped, given how completely shot her nerves are -- but Emma’s touch serves as a balm and barrier to Regina’s memories, keeping her anchored in the here and now. “It’s okay,” Emma says, and it’s only now that Regina can bring herself to meet Emma’s eyes. “You really don’t have to finish that story if you don’t want to.”

And somehow it’s that -- the knowledge that Regina doesn’t have to finish this story if she doesn’t want to -- that gives her the strength to do just that. There’s not much left she could tell that would be all that surprising anyway, given how much she’s already shared, and the story doesn’t make sense -- doesn’t really answer Emma’s question if Regina doesn’t finish it. And while Regina can’t find answers herself, she can at least give them to Emma. “It’s okay,” Regina assures her with a barely-there smile. Emma hesitates for a moment before pulling her hand back, but she doesn’t look away. Regina takes a breath to compose herself before she resumes the story. “After,” she continues, voice a little more even than before, “when the King was summoned to my chamber, all of the royal physicians and healers and soothsayers spoke to him like I wasn’t even there,” she says, and she knows she sounds bitter. “ _She’s not fit to bear children_ , they said,” Regina laughs, dry and humorless. A beat to look back down at the floor, and then, “I’ve spent most of my adult life believing that.”

“So that’s what you’re worried about,” Emma finally deduces. “If you _are_ pregnant, you’re worried you won’t even be able to carry to term.”

Tears sting at Regina’s eyes and she inhales sharply, adjusting her grip on the edge of the sink. She’s spent the entire morning trying to _avoid_ even so much as thinking about this because while the timing _is_ rather atrocious given how much of a mess her life is right now, she really isn’t unhappy at the prospect she’s facing. Regina is a mother _first_ , has faced magic and monsters for her children, and the possibility of this -- that she might have an opportunity to be a mother in a new way, that she might be able to have this with Robin -- is enough to have hope blossom and burn in her very soul. But it’s also that -- her soul -- that is making her anxious. Her track record with pregnancies is terrible to begin with, but even if her body managed to carry a child to term now, Regina isn’t entirely sure whether or not her experiences in the Netherworld recently will have had a negative impact.

If she’s pregnant, Regina is afraid she’s already done irreparable damage to her child’s soul.

But it’s not something she’s going to tell Emma -- partially because the explanation will take longer than Regina has energy or patience for right now -- but mostly because the Netherworld is one secret Regina is not ready to let go of just yet. So it’s with a rather wry smile that Regina looks back up at Emma and says, “Among other things.”

Emma’s mouth twists into a smile. “I don’t suppose you feel like telling me what those other things are, do you?”

Regina levels her with a look, but she smiles all the same. “I think I’ve shared enough secrets today, Miss Swan.”

“Can’t argue with you there,” Emma sighs, pushing herself away from the sink and turning around. Her eyes drift beyond Regina to the sink and mirror behind her, and Emma doesn’t have to speak to for Regina to know what the look means.

Her time is up.

“Want me to look for you?” Emma offers, nodding at where Regina’s left the pregnancy test on the sink.

It’s Regina’s turn to push away from her sink, inhaling sharply as she folds her arms across her chest and steps out of Emma’s way. “Please,” she says, and it’s all she can manage at this point.

Emma is thankfully quick about it, doesn’t choose to linger or drag it out any longer. She closes the gap between her and the sink and reaches for the test, and Regina finds herself looking away. She doesn’t want to see the look on Emma’s face when she knows, doesn’t want to make assumptions and be swayed. Regina needs to hear it said aloud, first, before she can see it for herself. A brief pause, and then, “It’s negative.” Regina blinks up at Emma quickly, brow knitting in confusion. Emma’s eyes are already on her, careful in their observance. “That’s… not what you were expecting, was it?”

“No,” Regina agrees faintly. “It’s not.” She barely holds eye contact for more than a few seconds before looking away, confusion muddling her mind as the news sinks in. She’s not pregnant. She’s not -- the answers to her questions won’t be found here, in a truth that doesn’t exist. She’s not pregnant, which means she’d gotten sick this morning because of her own mother. She’s not pregnant, which means Cora hadn’t reached for anyone other than Regina in the Hall of Mirrors. She’s not pregnant, and like a flame flickering out, hope gives way to ache in her chest, the images of her sons fading away. She’s not pregnant, which means Regina has been _alone_ in the Netherworld, and as happy as she should be that she hasn’t been putting a child at risk, she finds that she’s very much not.

Her skin itches.

“You okay?” Emma prompts, setting the test back down on the sink.

“Fine,” Regina answers thickly, blinking back over at her. “I’m fine,” she says, but her voice has started to crack and break. She’s missed the sensation of stinging at her eyes, surprised to already find tears welling in her eyes. “I’m fine,” she lies again, and the tears are there before she can so much as lift a hand to stop them. “God, what is _wrong_ with me?” she huffs, wiping awkwardly at her eyes.

Emma’s answering smile is a little too knowing for Regina’s liking. “Maybe the fact that you’re this worked up over that test being negative is because you want this more than you thought you did,” Emma says, and it’s not a suggestion so much as a statement.

But it’s a statement Regina can’t give credence to, not without fueling her ache. Ache is useless without direction, and Regina is already lost. “This is ridiculous,” she laughs wetly, trying desperately to reconstruct some walls. “The timing of it would’ve been terrible with everything else going on right now, and I don’t -- I don’t _need_ this, Emma,” she says, and there is truth in that. “I don’t need to carry a child to be a mother.”

“Of course not,” Emma agrees quickly, taking a step toward her. “You became a mother the second you brought Henry home. You have Henry and Roland. And I _know_ how much you love them, Regina. Believe me, I do. You showed me that when you gave me your memories of Henry. You’d do the same for Roland in a heartbeat, if you had to. But,” she says, taking another step closer, “this could have been a good thing, too. You keep saying the timing is terrible because of everything else you’ve got going on, Regina, but sometimes that’s the best time to take risks. Maybe a baby would have been a good thing in the midst of some of this chaos. And,” Emma adds, closing the rest of the gap between them and tentatively resting a hand on Regina’s arm, “just because you already have two kids you love doesn’t mean it’s wrong to _want_ this.”

Regina ache twists and coils and makes its way down to her gut. She inhales sharply, knowing that the electric magic might manifest if she’s not careful, if she’s not mindful of her emotions. So she tamps down the aching affection she feels for Emma in that moment, pushes past the gratitude she feels at having Emma accept her feelings without justification or judgement. But Emma is not alone; there are others who have done the same, others who love Regina as she is -- every piece of light and dark. Henry and Mary Margaret are chief among them, but it’s not them she needs to let in next time; it’s Robin. To trust him means to let him in, to tear her walls down and take a leap of faith that trusting him won’t hurt him, in the end.

She can’t possibly hurt him more than she already has.

For now, though, keeping a few of her walls up with Emma is the only way she can ensure that she maintains control over her emotions, so it’s with barely suppressed ache that Regina shrugs out of Emma’s touch and steps away. “Well, it doesn’t really matter now, does it?” she says, throat feeling a little raw. “The test was negative.”

Emma doesn’t seem all that bothered by Regina’s withdrawal. “Well, yeah,” she agrees, nose wrinkling a little, “but that doesn’t mean it’s _right_.” Regina’s confusion must be apparent in her expression because Emma’s quick with an explanation. “I mean, you _have_ skipped like, three periods at this point, Regina. If you’re not pregnant, then something else could be going on.”

 _You’re sick_ , Robin had accused, and everything in Regina goes cold.

But again, Regina must be wearing her heart on her sleeve right now because Emma holds up a hand as if to say _wait_. “Or,” she offers, eyes flicking briefly over to the test on the sink, “that test was a false negative. They’re more common than you might think.”

Regina blinks rapidly for a few seconds and shakes her head to try and collect herself. She’s not really following where Emma’s going with this. “So what… exactly do you want me to do now?” Regina asks, fatigue settling in again.

“Take another test,” Emma suggests, gesturing at the box they’ve left on the loveseat. “That way, regardless of the results, you’ll know for sure what you are or aren’t dealing with, and you’ll know how you feel about it.” Slowly, Regina’s gaze falls to the box in question. She’s quiet for a moment as she contemplates the option. It may provide slightly more clear answers, true enough, but Regina’s not sure that either of the potential answers is necessarily a good thing.

 _Maybe a baby could have been a good thing_.

The alternative to that is not one Regina really wants to consider.

Still, the suggestion is… tempting, a way to get answers for some of her questions, at least, and Regina finds herself drawn back to the loveseat. She reaches for the box, turning it over in hand, but Emma speaks before Regina has a chance to remove another test. “Take both of them, actually.”

Regina narrows her eyes and glances back over at Emma. “Why?”

“For accuracy,” Emma says with a shrug. She leans against the edge of the sink again as Regina turns the box over in her hand once more, and Emma’s eyes spark with a smile. “And because they come in three-packs, Regina, what else am I going to do with them?”

Regina’s mouth twists into a smile, now, as she clutches the box in hand and starts to make her way back across the room. “Oh, I don’t know,” she muses, lingering at the door to the stall. “The longer we’re in here, the more likely it is that pirate of yours will start getting _ideas_.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Just shut up and take the rest of the damn tests.”

The process is perhaps a little less fraught with anxiety this time around, the waiting less trying on Regina’s patience. Her expectations are different than before; she’s expecting the tests to still be negative this time around, which will mean that something else is happening to her, but Regina is, surprisingly, not as afraid as she was a few minutes ago.

Whatever she has to face from here on out, Regina knows she doesn’t have to do it alone.

The silence between them is comfortable again as Regina washes up, the air filled with an ease that hasn’t been there all morning. They’re more than halfway through the wait time for the results -- back to leaning against the edges of the sinks -- before Regina breaks the silence. “Thank you,” she says, casting a small smile in Emma’s direction. “For… _risking your virtue_ , I suppose.”

Emma barely bites back a laugh. “Don’t thank me just yet,” she quips. “Wait and see if I survive the interrogations, first.”

“You know,” Regina muses, “it’s times like these when some of the practices from the Enchanted Forest could come in handy.”

“Dial it down a notch, _Your Majesty_ ,” Emma drawls as she straightens up and turns toward the sinks. “Let’s see if there’s even anything left for people to gossip about, first. You want to do the honors this time?”

Regina takes a breath and relaxes her shoulders, shaking her head. “No,” she declines, and it’s still the only answer she has -- _please, no_ \-- but that’s okay, she realizes. It’s okay to be a little afraid if she’s not alone.

This time, Regina doesn’t look away when Emma reaches for the tests, and again, Emma doesn’t do her the disservice of dragging it out. “Congrats,” Emma says, smile blossoming on her face as she holds up the tests for Regina to see.

And there, on the face of both tests, is a small plus sign -- positive.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Regina _is_ pregnant.

Her instincts had been _right_.

All of the breath leaves her at once as she brings a hand up to rest over her abdomen. "Not what you were expecting?" Emma quips dryly.

Regina shakes her head, tears stinging at her eyes again and god, these must be _hormones_ talking. She'd forgotten how much she'd hated them before. "No," she admits thickly. "I wasn't expecting --" She cuts herself with a sharp inhale and turns around, hands gripping the edges of the sink again. "I don't know what I was expecting." And she can feel Emma's eyes on her again, can hear the questions Emma hasn't asked. A breath to steady herself, and Regina tries to find a way to explain without relinquishing her hold on her final secret. "When I sleep," she says, slowly, carefully, "I... see things. And there are times when I'm not... entirely sure whether they're real or not "

"You still doubt you're pregnant," Emma surmises. 

"No," Regina counters, still trying to choose her words carefully. "Twice positive is more of a confirmation of my instincts than anything else. I just... want to be sure."

When Regina looks over at her again, there is something knowing in Emma’s eyes. "You want to make sure everything's okay." Regina exhales shakily and looks back down at the sink, eyes following the tests that Emma sets down in front of her. "You know your chances are better here, right?" Emma reminds her. "Medicine is way more advanced here than it was in the Enchanted Forest. And the doctors aren't total quacks."

The thought should be comforting -- and it is, to an extent -- but it’s not enough to curb Regina’s anxiety. She feels the familiar coil in her gut twisting tight and her mind goes straight to _be mindful of your emotions_. She takes a breath to steady herself and tries to relax her hands against the edge of the sink, tries to stay in control, tries very hard to protect -- and she knows what it is that she’s protecting, now. “It’s not just my body I’m worried about,” she admits after a moment, and before either of them can speak, the electric magic sparks out of Regina’s left hand as if on cue.

Emma starts a little but doesn’t move away, and Regina inhales sharply, pushing away from the sink to put a little space between her and Emma. Emma’s quiet for a moment before she asks, “Is… this what’s been going on with your magic since what happened with Gold?”

Regina rubs at the palm of her hand to quell the lingering stinging sensation and tries to breathe evenly. “It’s usually a lot worse than that,” she says. The coiling instinct doesn’t subside, but it doesn’t manifest, either, so Regina tries to use what little control she has to keep talking. “It usually comes from -- from here,” she explains, fingers dropping to drag across her abdomen. And she can’t help but inhale sharply at her own touch, knowing what she knows now -- knowing that her child is beneath her skin.

_Perhaps you merely destroy everything you touch._

Hands shaking, Regina curls her fingers into a fist before flexing them. She is not her mother. She will not do what her mother did -- not again. She will not use magic against her child. She will not leave marks on her child the way Mother used to do to her -- the way Mother did to her only just last night. Regina flexes her fingers again in an attempt to keep from rubbing at her wrists and raise suspicion, but her anxiety just festers and builds, coil in her gut twisting tighter. She won’t, she won’t, she won’t --

Magic sparks out of her left hand again, prompting a muffled sound of pain from her. “That hurts?” Emma inquires, taking a step toward her.

Regina nods a little, and Emma hesitates for a moment before reaching out a hand toward Regina’s. Regina pulls her hand away before Emma can get too close, inhaling sharply. Emma hesitates again, eyes meeting Regina’s carefully. “I don’t… want to hurt you,” Regina tries to explain.

And inexplicably, Emma smiles. “You won’t,” she says. “I did the whole not being able to control my magic thing earlier this year, remember? I only hurt Henry because I was trying so hard not to.”

Regina swallows hard at the memory -- Henry flinching under her touch as she’d examined the wound, her using magic to heal him. “This isn’t like anything my magic’s ever done before,” she murmurs.

“I know you like to think of yourself as some sort of paragon of magic,” Emma counters dryly, “but your little stunt with Gold was experimental, remember? You’re not going to have all the answers here. Sometimes you have to let someone help you.” A beat, and then Emma’s holding out a hand in offering. “Trust me, Regina.”

Regina casts her eyes down to Emma’s hand, the offer giving her pause. She _does_ trust Emma, far more than she ever thought she would. They wouldn’t be here right now, pregnancy tests sitting on the counter, if Regina didn’t trust her. But it’s more than that; it’s _beyond_ that, really. Emma has spent the last twenty minutes or so giving Regina exactly what she needs without Regina having to ask: a sympathetic ear, a safe space, a gentle touch. And it had been Emma’s touch that had anchored Regina, earlier, Emma’s touch that Regina had trusted without a second thought. And really, that’s all Regina needs to regain control over her magic again -- or at least, it’s the one thing she knows will work. She needs an anchor to believe.

So Regina places her hand in Emma’s, palm facing up, and she believes.

The anxiety inside of her falls quiet.

Emma rubs her thumb roughly against the skin of Regina’s palm, brow wrinkled in concentration. “No marks,” she murmurs, turning Regina’s hand over to examine the other side. “No burns, no broken skin, nothing. It may hurt, Regina, but you’re not causing any damage to yourself.”

Regina pulls her hand away when Emma’s fingers get too close to the sleeve of her sweater -- to the marks on her wrists. She feels anxiety flare up again, just a little, but the instinct to protect tamps it back down as she moves her hand back to rest over her abdomen. “It’s not me I’m worried about.”

And again, there’s something knowing in Emma’s eyes, and Regina finds herself grateful. “You’re worried it’ll hurt the baby,” Emma realizes, and Regina closes her eyes. “You’re worried it already has.” And all at once, the words Henry -- _not_ Henry had spoken in the Hall of Mirrors come back to Regina: _what makes you think you can do this_? “Hey,” Emma prompts, hand on Regina’s arm again. Regina takes a breath, opens her eyes, and allows herself to be anchored in the here and now. “The only way you’ll know for sure is if you take the next step, okay? Make an appointment. Go see Whale -- or someone else, even. He’s not the only doctor in this town.”

“Maybe not,” Regina allows, sighing, “but he’s the only one with enough of a fundamental understanding of magic to be useful to me at the moment, so I’m not sure I have much choice in the matter.”

“Okay, Whale then,” Emma agrees, though she doesn’t sound particularly thrilled at the prospect either. She lets her hand fall away, but it’s okay; Regina’s ache and anxiety is starting to develop direction, at least. “Until then, the best thing you can do is to just… take care of yourself. Have you eaten yet today? It’s almost ten.”

Regina shakes her head. “The morning sickness was… _awful_ , earlier,” she admits, the reality of her situation sinking in a little more. “I had three cups of tea before you got here.”

“So let’s go back into the diner,” Emma suggests, moving to start cleaning up the mess they’ve left strewn about the bathroom. “You can see if you can manage to keep something down, and I can order takeout for the boys.”

It takes a moment for Regina to figure out what Emma’s talking about. “Henry,” she surmises warmly, unable to hide her smile at the thought of her son. “I’d forgotten he was having a sleepover for his birthday this weekend.” She pauses for a moment, smile faltering and brow knitting in worry as a thought occurs to her. “You didn’t leave a bunch of thirteen-year-olds alone just to come help me with this, did you?”

“Relax,” Emma laughs, tossing the remnants of the tests in the trash and reaching for Regina’s purse on the loveseat. “Killian’s with them.”

Regina arches an eyebrow. “I’m not sure if that’s better or worse, honestly.”

“They’re _fine_ ,” Emma assures her, handing off Regina’s purse. “They were still asleep when I left. Last night was all too much sugar and a stack of extra large pizzas that still don’t live up to New York standards and a fierce Mario Kart competition.”

Regina’s lips twist into a smile as she follows Emma toward the bathroom door. “Did you and Hook get roped into that?”

Emma grins at Regina over her shoulder as they move into the hallway. “I’m not allowed to play anymore,” she admits. “Killian held out for a while, though. He’s surprisingly good at it -- you know, for only having one hand.”

Regina only just manages not to laugh. “ _Really_?” she drawls.

Emma stops dead in the middle of the hallway before turning around slowly, surprise evident on her face. “That is… _not_ what I meant,” she says carefully.

“You’re the one who said you didn’t want him getting any _ideas_ ,” Regina reminds her.

“Oh my god,” Emma huffs, holding up her in hands in exasperation and whirling back around once she realizes what Regina’s doing. “I am _not_ having this conversation with you.”

“Oh please,” Regina laughs, resuming following Emma down the hallway toward the entrance to the diner. “You can take a little good natured teasing from me, Emma. It's better than enduring your father awkwardly try to talk to you about it using pirate puns.”

Emma stops just at the precipice of the entryway to the diner, forcing Regina to move past her and turn around. “Yeah, well,” Emma sighs, folding her arms over her chest, “I am not the only one who has a potentially awkward conversation to look forward to.” Regina narrows her eyes in confusion, prompting Emma to nod in the direction of the diner behind Regina. Regina glances over her shoulder, eyes surveying the room for a moment, before her gaze settles where Emma had intended.

On the seat next to Regina’s recently vacated spot at the bar is a very quiet, very stressed-looking Robin, and Regina wraps an arm around her middle.

She is carrying Robin’s child, and for a moment, Regina finds she cannot breathe.

Emma’s quiet for a moment before she speaks again. “When are you going to tell him?”

Regina’s gaze lingers a little longer, watching as Ruby takes Robin’s order, before she turns her attention back to Emma. “Not now,” she answers quietly. “I want -- I want to see Whale, first. I’ll tell Robin after that.”

“You know Robin would go with you,” Emma points out.

“I know,” Regina sighs. “That’s… sort of the point. Robin -- he’s experienced more of what’s been going on with me than Henry has. He wants to help, but --”

“But you’re not really talking,” Emma guesses.

Regina shifts uncomfortably and tries not to work her jaw in frustration. “What’s been happening to me -- I don’t fully understand it myself. Talking to Robin about it when I don’t know how to explain it, when I don’t have any answers as to what it means or how he can help -- it wouldn’t help. It’d just make him more anxious than he already is.”

“Is that what this morning was about?” Emma asks. “Something happened, you got sick, he wanted to talk, you didn’t?”

Regina wraps both arms around her middle, now, holding her secrets tight. “What happened this morning is that I realized I might be pregnant,” she says thinly, lowering her voice so she’s not overheard. “And I couldn’t even _think_ about talking to Robin about anything else until I knew for sure.”

Emma raises her eyebrows expectantly, clearly unwilling to let it go. “And now that you do know, your solution to the situation is to continue not talking to him about anything?”

Regina leans back against the frame of the entryway, patience wearing thin. “You really don’t understand --”

“No, I do,” Emma counters, cutting her off. Her voice is surprisingly gentle, though, her shoulders relaxing a little as she gives Regina a once-over. “You’re trying to protect him. I get that. But relationships are a two-way street, Regina,” she says, and it’s Robin on the pier all over again. “At some point, you have to starting letting him be here for you. He’s been good at that from the get-go, from what I saw, and maybe the whole Marian thing made you question it a little, but… he chose _you_ , Regina. He loves you, he’s living a life with you. Don’t --” She pauses for a moment and glances over at where Robin’s still sitting at the bar. “Don’t do what I did,” Emma says quietly. “Don’t make him think you don’t trust him just because you’re afraid of what might happen to him. Don’t -- don’t shut him out.”

 _Follow me, end up like me_ , Emma had said in the Hall of Mirrors, and once again, Regina is meant to take the path Emma has traveled before her.

Slowly, Regina turns her head to look at Robin again, watching as his fingers are tracing the rim of a glass -- alcohol, she thinks. Regina _does_ trust him, perhaps moreso than anyone else, but she also remembers what Mulan had said last week -- _you’re in this together, it affects him, too_. Their argument this morning is proof enough of that -- Robin’s frustrations at being unable to help her, the clear indication that he’s been keeping secrets of his own. If Regina trusts him, she has to do the same that she’d done with Emma, moments ago; she has to trust that she won’t hurt him.

She doesn’t have to do this alone.

With breath in her lungs, Regina lets go of her fear and believes. “You’re right,” she agrees quietly. “After Whale, I’ll talk to Robin.” Emma _tsk_ s, clearly annoyed, but Regina turns to look at her again, arms relaxing around her middle. “I can’t stop him from worrying about me,” she admits, “but waiting until after I see Whale will be easier. I can explain everything at once, that way. You can hold me to that.”

Emma studies her for a moment, clearly debating whether or not to let the subject drop, before she finally sighs and throws up her hands in surrender. “Fine,” she says. “But I _am_ going to hold you to it.”

Regina musters up a small smile. “You’re just as meddlesome as your mother, you know.”

Emma levels her with a _look_. “Believe it or not, I’m thinking about our kid, here. I have a feeling if you keep shutting Robin out, things are just going to get worse. And trust me, Henry’s going to notice.”

Regina pushes herself away from the frame and unfurls her arms. “I know. I’ve been trying to keep Henry out of this, but he’s…”

“Annoyingly persistent?” Emma offers, grinning.

Regina laughs. “I was going to say too observant for his own good, but that works, too. Must run in the family.”

“Oh god, don’t remind me,” Emma groans. “I’m going to have to dodge my mom’s calls for a week.” A beat, and then recognition is dawning in Emma’s eyes. “You thought she’d been the one to tell me about what’s been going on with you,” she says. “How much does she know?”

Regina exhales tiredly. “About as much as Robin and Henry do,” she says. It’s her turn to hesitate now, the memory of their conversation in the bathroom earlier resurfacing. “Not as much as you, about… other things.”

It takes Emma a moment to catch on. “She doesn’t know about the miscarriages.”

Regina grips the strap of her purse tight and fights the urge to wrap an arm around her middle, the instinct to protect overwhelming. “I’d like to keep it that way. She doesn’t need to know.”

Emma’s answering smile is full of warmth and affection. “Not my secret to tell,” she says simply. “But don’t worry, I won’t say anything. You have my word.” Her eyes drift to the diner again when the tell-tale bell over the front door rings, her smile faltering. “I can’t, however, say the same about who just walked in.” Regina follows her gaze to where Leroy is sauntering up to where one of his brothers -- Bashful, she thinks, the one who can never quite look her in the eye -- sits at the opposite end of bar as Robin. “I’m tempted to sneak out the back through the inn.”

Regina turns her attention back to Emma, smiling wryly. “All things considered, I wouldn’t blame you if you did. The boys can have cold pizza for breakfast, can’t they?”

Emma gives her a look that clearly says _who are you?_ , but one last glance at Leroy seems to prevent her from arguing. “I’m going to chalk that up to pregnancy hormones,” Emma decides. “Good luck with Robin.”

“Thanks,” Regina laughs dryly as Emma disappears down the hallway.

Her mood sombers a little once she turns back toward the diner, though. Robin hasn’t moved from his spot, hasn’t even touched his drink, from the look of things, and while Regina trusts him, she’s not entirely sure how to fix this right now. She’s not ready to tell him everything he wants to know -- not yet, not until she’s seen Whale -- but she’s done shutting him out. So she takes a deep breath to steady herself and weaves her way through the slowly thinning crowd in the diner back to her spot at the bar.

Robin doesn’t look at her when she takes her seat and sets her purse down on the bar, but he does shift a little on his stool, the only sign he gives that he knows she’s there. Regina rests her hands in her lap and tries not to fidget. She’s _brimming_ with secrets now -- things she needs to share, things she _wants_ to share -- but as _much_ as she wants to let Robin in right now, to tell him about the baby, at the very least, Regina knows she’s not ready. Not yet. So she takes one breath, and then another before glancing over at him and venturing, “How was your walk?”

Robin’s fingers still on the rim of his glass, halting for a moment before he removes them and rests his head on his hand. “Well,” he sighs, sounding tired, “I spent about two hours ambling around the woods before I ended up here. And now… I am having a staring contest with a glass of whiskey and _losing_ ,” he says, laugh sounding bitter. “So all in all, not great.”

Regina glances briefly at the glass he’s abandoned before turning her attention back on him, surveying him carefully. He looks as tired as he sounds, hair a mess and circles under his eyes, but it’s his eyes that capture her attention most. There’s something… dark in them, lost and loathing, and it takes Regina a moment to realize that for all that Robin ordered alcohol this early on a Saturday morning, he doesn’t actually want to drink it.

Robin has secrets of his own.

She can hazard a guess at what this one might be but says nothing, knowing that the choice to share it -- to own it and ask for help -- is his and his alone. But Regina also knows what secrets like this can do to people, to families, has seen it rip apart the fabric of a person’s soul and shake the foundation of a relationship. And she loves their family -- loves _him_ enough to offer to shoulder the burden a little, to let him know he’s not alone.

Relationships are a two-way street, and Regina refuses to let them suffocate anymore.

So it’s with love aching in her chest that Regina rests a hand on the bar next to his, palm facing up in silent offering. Robin’s eyes shift to consider it, his breathing steady and measured but increasingly heavy. She only has to wait a moment before he’s pushing the glass away and taking up her hand with his own, turning it over and grasping tight. His other hand is shaking -- she can see it even though he’s trying to hide it -- and all Regina is left with is the one thing she knows she can give him.

All she can do is _be here_.

Slowly, she shifts on the stool to face him a little better and leans in close, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Hey,” she murmurs, lips falling to his ear. “I’m sorry about this morning.”

Robin exhales softly, leaning into her touch. “Me too,” he murmurs, adjusting his grip on her hand so he’s not holding on quite so tight. He relaxes a little -- she can feel the tension bleed from his muscles, his shoulders sagging in what she thinks is relief -- before turning his head to look at her properly. His eyes have lightened considerably, love visible in his irises, and Regina can’t help but lean in to kiss him, chaste and sweet. It’s the simplest of things -- a veritable, quite literal kiss and make up -- but Regina thinks that perhaps that’s really all they need right now. An apology, a reassuring kiss, a hand to hold and keep each other anchored until they’re both ready to start talking. Regina knows she’s running out of time before that happens for her, but she thinks she’s finally okay with that. Sharing secrets with Robin will -- hopefully -- make things better, and maybe in the end, it’ll enable him to start sharing his own.

She puts a little space between them once she breaks the kiss but doesn’t let go of his hand, anxiety quelled by his touch. He’s not quite smiling, not really, but the affection is clearly there, written all over his face. So Regina offers him a small smile, instead, and squeezes his hand a little tighter. “Have breakfast with me?”

Robin quirks an eyebrow up, looking equal parts skeptical and bemused. “Are you sure you can keep anything down, after this morning?”

Regina bites her lip, debating for a moment. “I won’t really know unless I try, I suppose,” she sighs. “I can start small.” And that’s all she _can_ do, really, is try, because she _has_ to; she’s eating for two, now.

This isn’t just about her. It never has been.

Ruby thankfully chooses then to approach them, smile bright but eyes full of apprehension. “Just the drinks, still?”

Regina takes a breath and sits up a little straighter, shaking her head. “Um, no, actually. I think we’re staying for breakfast. Some dry toast for me, to start, and whatever Robin would like.” Ruby’s study of her is brief, barely noticeable, but there’s something curious in Ruby’s eyes as she looks at Regina.

Still, Ruby says nothing, just nods and turns her attention to Robin to take his order. She hesitates once he’s finished, though, eyes falling to the still-full glass of whiskey sitting off to the side. “You change your mind about that?” Ruby asks.

Robin’s eyes shift to the glass, now, and Regina squeezes his hand reassuringly. “Yes,” he affirms, quiet but firm. “I don’t need it, Ruby, thank you.” He waits until Ruby’s taken the glass and gone off to the kitchen before he brings Regina’s hand up to his mouth and presses a kiss to her knuckles.

And Regina remembers, then, what Mother had said to her at the time of Daniel’s death -- that love only feels real at the start, and like an illusion, it fades. _I’ve saved you, my love_ , she’d said. It’s only now as they sit at the bar -- marks on her wrists and a child in her belly, a glass of whiskey spiraling down the drain -- that Regina _knows_ without a doubt that Robin had been right, at the pier, and Mother had been wrong all along.

True love is strength, and it _endures_.

* * * * *


	6. October 21, 2013

_Regina wakes up to the sound of whispers._

_Her brow knits in concentration as she tries to discern what they’re saying, but they’re hushed and muddled, voices and words indistinguishable. Slowly, she blinks opens her eyes to search for the sources, but the sight that greets her catches her off guard. There is firelight reflecting off of glass, warm and refracted, the floor littered with ash and poison and leaves._

_She is in the Hall of Mirrors._

_She sits up abruptly and glances around, bewildered. Not much has changed, since she was last here -- the hedges are gone, at least, their remnants scattered across the floor -- but she has. She’s not -- she’s not in her pajamas this time, which strikes her as odd. She’s wearing what she donned this morning -- a simple t-shirt and slacks, heeled boots on her feet and a borrowed boyfriend cardigan wrapped around her, her hair swept into a side ponytail. She doesn’t remember changing into her pajamas, doesn’t remember climbing into bed. She doesn’t remember curling up next to Robin, doesn’t remember the press of his lips against hers or his whispered devotions._

_She doesn’t remember falling asleep at all._

_Slowly, she grips the pole of the mirror stand next to her to try and anchor herself, the metal cool to her touch. It feels real -- it always does -- but Regina finds she’s not sure if it actually is or not. She’s never lost time, not like this, not before she’s come here, but this -- her soul traveling to the Netherworld -- has never been just a dream._

_She doesn’t know how she got here._

_Wary, Regina uses her grip on the pole to pull herself to her feet. She wraps the cardigan tighter around her and curls her arms around herself in spite of the simmering heat from the torchlight. Regardless of whether or not this is real, the encounters she’s had in the Hall of Mirrors in the last few weeks have not been particularly pleasant. And now that she’s certain she’s pregnant, Regina can’t help but be extra cautious about her visits here._

_She cannot let her guard down._

_So she stays where she is and strains her ears to try and pinpoint the source of the whispers. She’s never heard anything quite like it, in all her visits here, but there’s something almost melodic about the cadence of the voices, low and lyrical. She’d find it almost soothing if she didn’t distrust it so much. Still, she cannot seem to make sense of the muddled murmurs, doesn’t know where they’re coming from in the dark, vast hall. She turns her attention instead to the hall itself and looks around, searching for anything out of place. Aside from the changes to the greenery Mother had supplied during Regina’s last visit, there isn’t really much to give Regina pause. She still can’t see her own reflection in any of the mirrors. The firelight from the torches is still burning bright. The floor is still littered with the messes she’s left behind, mirrors are still missing, the cradle is --_

_The cradle is missing._

_Regina sucks in a breath and rests a palm against the now slight swell of her belly. The cradle had been here last time, she’s sure. She remembers moving it once or twice, remembers watching it fall over with Mother’s ministrations. The cradle has been here every visit since it first appeared, and its absence now makes Regina uneasy. Mother had been here last -- Mother had reached for her child -- and Regina wonders, now, if Mother had taken the cradle with her when she’d fallen into the darkness of one of the mirrors. But she can’t remember which mirror Mother had fallen through, can’t discern direction in an endless circle, so it’s with trepidation that Regina starts to move around the perimeter of the hall, examining each mirror and frame as she passes by. She doesn’t need to be as cautious in her movements as she does when she’s barefoot, but it’s almost habit by now, the careful, calculated footsteps she takes an echo of the dance she’d done in Maleficent’s mansion._

_It’s not until she reaches the last standing mirror that she notices anything odd. The glass doesn’t give way like she’d been expecting it to -- how else would Mother have left, if she hadn’t fallen through a looking glass -- but Regina does find something of note along the frame. It’s not metal like the others but wood, gnarled and rotted and carved with intricate designs. There’s something vaguely familiar about it that Regina can’t quite place, and it’s only when her fingers start to trace over the knots and curves that the whispers in the hall start to grow louder. She still can’t quite make out what they’re saying, so she bows her head and closes her eyes, doing her best to focus._

_When her hand falls away from the mirror, the voices fall silent._

_Perplexed, Regina opens her eyes. She’s startled when she sees a dead bird at her feet and takes a step back. The heel of her boot brushes against something else on the floor behind her and she turns around without thinking, brow furrowing when she sees another dead bird. And another just beyond it, and another, and another._

_The floor is nearly covered in them._

_Confused and a little repulsed, Regina glances around the hall once more, searching for any indication that someone else is present. But as hard as she looks, as hard as she searches, she cannot see anyone -- herself included -- in the dark. The whispers of the voices have fallen silent, and in their wake, they’ve left mockingbirds that don’t sing. Slowly, Regina turns back around toward the mirror with the wooden frame. For a moment, she wonders if they birds had come through there, when she’d closed her eyes briefly, but there is nothing beyond the glass, nothing at all._

_Regina is, once again, alone._

_Eyes closed again, Regina exhales slowly and rests her forehead against the frame, wood rough against her skin. And she wonders, then, if maybe Mother had been right -- perhaps Regina does just destroy everything she touches. Maybe Jefferson had been right, too._

_Maybe this is all in her head._

_And then she hears it -- someone is crying._

_Regina snaps her eyes open and quickly turns around, eyes glancing around wildly for half a moment before settling on the sight in front of her. Amongst the birds and directly in front of the wood-framed mirror sits the slightly hunched, willowy frame of Snow White. Her back is to Regina, her hair longer here, locks curling and tumbling to the floor. They provide a stark contrast to the pure ivory of her dressing gown, and with a tightness in her chest, Regina follows the train of the gown down past bended knee._

_And that’s when she sees it -- blood._

_Her instincts in here are still very much the same -- protect -- and they propel Regina forward, brow knit in concern as her hands reach out to help. She barely takes a few steps forward before she slows to a stop in front of Snow and turns to face her._

_Snow has found the empty cradle._

_She’s hunched over it, eyes bloodshot and face stained with tears, and the blood on the floor tells Regina all she needs to know._

_This Snow has just lost Emma to the wardrobe._

_And then she starts to sing, voice broken open as she cries, and the whispers answer in return -- a cadence to her lullaby. “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Mama’s going to buy you a mockingbird,” Snow sings, and Regina feels her skin crawl. She takes a step back, and then another, trying to avoid stepping on the carcasses of birds as Snow continues her haunting little lullaby. It’s instinct, really, desperation in an attempt to get away from the madness that feeds her. Regina can’t get out of here -- she’s tried, more than once -- but she refuses to stay here any longer. She won’t subject her child’s soul to this, to darkness and death and disturbia, and her instinct remains as it has always been -- to protect._

_And in her quiet desperation, Regina turns to the only thing she has left at her disposal -- magic._

_Still silent, Regina waves her hands in front of her in a desperate attempt to teleport herself out of here. Nothing, not even wisps of smoke. Again, and nothing. Again, and she thinks of the hat she’d destroyed, spinning and spinning across the floor. Again, and Snow’s voice is like a piercing prison, singing and ringing. “And if that diamond ring turns brass,” Snow sings thickly, and Regina’s hands freeze in mid-air. She knows what comes next. “Mama’s going to buy you a looking… glass.” Her voice trails off at the end, eyes fixating at the mirror behind Regina for a moment before drifting upward._

_The whispers fall silent again._

_“You,” Snow breathes, recognition dawning in her eyes. “You did this.” Guilt settles on Regina’s shoulders like an old friend, and her skin itches, itches, itches. “You took this from me,” Snow accuses, sitting up as best she can. “You took this from me just like your mother did.”_

_“No,” Regina denies, her voice sharper than she intended. “You did this to yourself. You sent her away.”_

_“I sent her away to protect her from you!” Snow yells, voice echoing in the otherwise empty hall. She struggles to push herself upright, nails scratching against the wood of the cradle as she scrambles and stumbles and doubles over in pain. She is on her hands and knees and crawling toward Regina, reckless and resilient, and Regina finds that she cannot move. “You did this to me,” Snow says again, glancing back up at Regina as she slowly closes the gap between them. “Why would you do this to me?”_

_“You know why I did this,” Regina says coldly, her only defense against the arguments of sheer and utter madness. She will not give into this, the way guilt tries to mutilate her mind and her soul. She will not give into the itch under her skin, will not regret the lengths she had gone to in order to have a chance at a happy ending._

_She will not regret any choice that brought her a child._

_Regina is a mother, first._

_Snow reaches up a hand in desperation toward the slight swell of Regina’s belly, but Regina grabs her wrist roughly before she can manage to make contact. Snow’s hands are blistered and broken open and stained with darkness, and there is hope in her voice when she speaks. “Please,” she pleads, fresh tears spilling onto her cheeks. “Please. I was your child once, too.”_

_Eyes falling to the trail of blood on the floor, Regina embraces darkness like an old friend and lets Snow go. “No,” she refutes, the Evil Queen clawing up her throat. “You were never a child of mine.” Snow doubles over in her grief, sobbing anew as she slowly turns and crawls her way back toward the cradle. And Regina’s lungs flood with ache at the sight, so she does the only thing she can do to give it direction; she turns her back on a version of Snow that no longer exists._

_But when she turns around, she’s faced with another._

_Snow -- this Snow -- is just a child, eyes bright and beaming and adoring as she smiles up at Regina. And the instinct to protect -- to shield and to mother and to keep the darkest of secrets at bay -- forces darkness to bleed out of Regina’s lungs. “Snow,” she breathes, and it’s a thousand times more gentle, more kind than she’d been just a moment ago._

_“There you are,” the child huffs. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”_

_“And here I am,” Regina answers faintly, feeling in her skin again. “You found me.”_

_Snow looks pleased at the potential praise, but she stops shy of preening, smile fading as her eyes look past Regina. Regina half-glances over her shoulder to follow the child’s gaze, her chest growing tight when she realizes that the other Snow still remains. “She’s crying,” the child observes. Regina sucks in a breath and turns to face the child again, the sight of her careful and confused study making ache weigh down Regina’s chest. “Why is she crying?” the child asks, beginning to sound alarmed. “I don’t understand. Who did this to her?”_

_For that, Regina has no simple answer to offer. This child -- this Snow -- is unburdened in ways that the Snow behind Regina is not, and every instinct inside of Regina compels her to bite her tongue. But then Regina’s gaze drifts to the object behind the child -- a mirror -- and she remembers where she is._

_She’s asleep._

_None of this is real._

_She doesn’t have to lie, in here. She doesn’t have to keep secrets. And maybe -- maybe that’s the secret to getting out of here. She’s the one who holds the truth, now. Maybe it will set her free._

_So it’s with all of the resolve she can muster that Regina takes a breath and looks the child in the eyes. “I did.”_

_Disappointment flickers in the child’s eyes, but it’s quickly replaced with confusion and disbelief. “You?” the child asks carefully. “You did this to her?” Regina nods once, not trusting her voice. “But I don’t -- I don’t understand. You saved me. How could you hurt her?”_

_Regina blinks back tears and tries very hard to breathe evenly, swallowing around ache she thought she’d lost long ago. “She hurt me first,” Regina explains, and it is the basest of accusations, a half-truth at best, but she thinks it’s the only way the child might understand._

_Relief floods the child’s face. “You were just defending yourself,” she says. It’s rationalizing -- the adult in Regina knows it’s rationalizing, justification for the pain and horrors she inflicted. It’s an excuse, one she’d expect from the mind of a child, and Rumplestiltskin’s gaze burns guilt and disappointment onto Regina’s shoulders. And it must show on Regina’s face because the child reaches for her hand, now, in an effort to bring Regina comfort. But the child’s hand halts halfway, eyes casting down, and her hand is cupping the small swell of Regina’s belly before Regina can so much as blink or breathe. “You’re with child!” Snow exclaims with a gasp, sounding positively delighted at the prospect. She lifts her eyes back up to meet Regina’s, smile wide and practically beaming as she gushes, “My father will be so pleased.”_

_Bile rises up in her throat, and Regina feels sick._

_She cannot stomach another lie with one of her children -- with this child. Years of secrets and bit tongues have only burned bridges and shed blood. Regina won’t do it anymore, won’t have blood on her hands, won’t sever the ties she’s worked so hard to hold onto. Regina is asleep, and in order to wake, she has to break down the lie._

_In a room full of mirrors, she has to show this child truth._

_So it’s with an uneasy stomach and as much patience as she can muster that Regina gently removes the child’s hand -- Snow, it’s Snow’s hand -- from her slightly protruding belly and kneels down in front of her. “No,” she rasps, running her thumb along the back of Snow’s hand. “This is not your father’s child.”_

_Snow’s eyes darken and she yanks her hand away, clearly upset. “How could you?” she asks, indignant. “How could you betray my father like that?”_

_Pain is like poison in Regina’s lungs, and she finds herself breathing darkness again. It would be so easy to lie to Snow -- to lie to this child, to continue to perpetuate years of deceit and manipulation in order to lull her into a false sense of security. It would be so easy to lie, to take the easy way out and use it to inflict pain. But a lie also means that Regina might be stuck here, trying to reason with utter madness. A lie means protecting a child who no longer exists -- a child Regina never wanted. And above all else, a lie means falling back into the villainy she’s tried so hard to break out of, and that -- that is something Regina will not do._

_Villains take the easy way out, and that’s not who Regina is anymore._

_She will not let the dark keep her from the light._

_“It’s not betrayal, Snow,” she says, every bit a mother in her tone. “It’s not betrayal when you don’t rightfully belong to someone else. My body didn’t belong to him.” And there are words she leaves unspoken, here -- not to him, not to Mother, not to Rumple, not to Robin, not to anyone. But Snow -- this Snow -- wouldn’t understand what any of it meant, and of the things Regina needs to impress upon her as truth, those are not among them. She hesitates for a moment, contemplating, before she brings up a hand to rest over Snow’s heart. “And neither did my heart.”_

_Understanding dawns in Snow’s eyes, and she looks almost apologetic as she brings up a hand to rest over Regina’s. “Daniel?” she asks, quiet but fervent._

_Regina shakes her head, surprised at the sudden tears that sting at her eyes. “No, dear,” she says. “It belongs to me.” Slowly, she pulls her hand out and away from Snow’s grasp, heart aching as Snow looks down at her own hand, stunned. And then Snow’s hand falls away in turn, and Regina is horrified by what she sees._

_Snow’s heart has been stained by darkness._

_Regina’s hands are clean._

_Slowly, Snow sinks to the floor, clearly in shock. She shrinks away when Regina reaches out a hand to comfort her, afraid and untrusting. “How could you do this to me?” she asks incredulously. “How could you take this from me?” And with a painful coil from her core, Regina knows exactly what Snow means._

_Snow has lost her innocence, and Regina has left her mark._

_Blue and Cora, they’d both been right -- Regina has turned into her mother, and she destroys everything she touches._

_Rumplestiltskin had warned her._

_God, she really needs to get out of here. She needs to wake up._

_So she bites back what the darkness wants her to say -- that she lost her innocence, first -- and pushes herself to her feet, taking a careful step back. Snow -- adult Snow -- is still sobbing behind her, and Regina cannot face her again, but she has to turn away from the child. She cannot bear to look at the damage she’s inflicted any longer -- not when she’d spent decades of her waking life trying to avoid it. The child -- this version of Snow -- no longer exists, either, and still Regina has found ways to ruin her._

_But Regina is not that person anymore -- she’s not -- and she can do better, when she’s awake, when her mind isn’t being torn apart, when her soul isn’t at risk._

_Slowly, Regina brings a hand up to rest over the slight swell of her belly._

_This isn’t just about her._

_She can still protect one of her children, at least._

_So Regina turns away from Snow again, away from the wooden frame and cradle and tainted heart, intent on finding a way to at the very least wake up. The sight that greets her roots her to the spot, her breath catching in her chest._

_Snow -- bandit Snow -- is aiming an arrow directly at Regina’s heart._

_Regina feels ill._

_“You’re not real,” she breathes, closing her eyes and wrapping both arms around her middle, now. “This isn’t real.”_

_“Oh, I don’t know,” Snow says, sounding amused. She takes a step forward -- Regina doesn’t have to see it to hear the echoes of Snow’s footsteps -- and it’s only half a moment before Regina feels the tip of the arrow against her chest. She can’t help jumping a little at the contact, eyes snapping open and looking down at where the arrow rests against her chest. “Feels pretty real to me. How about you?”_

_Slowly, Regina takes a step away, trying to put some distance between her and the arrow Snow’s threatening her with. And it’s all suddenly achingly familiar -- Regina’s body recovering, Snow aiming an arrow at her in reaction to betrayal and deceit, Regina running (always, always running). She didn’t have her magic to aid her, back then, lost in a barter with Rumplestiltskin. But here -- in here, Regina can access her magic where she can’t in her waking hours, can potentially control it and use it to defend herself._

_To protect._

_So Regina does the only thing she can -- she keeps trying._

_Quickly, she waves her arms in front of her, knowing she might only have one opportunity to disappear and save herself from Snow’s arrow. But it doesn’t work; she doesn’t move, doesn’t budge an inch, doesn’t even manage smoke or fire in her hands. But Snow doesn’t release the arrow, just narrows her eyes and watches, so Regina tries to ignore the sound of sobbing behind her and makes another attempt. And again. And again._

_Nothing._

_And Snow, much to Regina’s surprise, smiles. “Oh, Regina,” she laughs. “You aren’t still entertaining the silly notion that your magic actually works in here, are you?”_

_Regina swallows hard and raises her left hand defensively, right anchoring over her belly again. “It has before.”_

_Snow smirks at that, emitting the barest of chuckles. “That’s what you think,” she drawls, and somewhere in Regina, the instinct to protect coils tight. Snow tilts her head to the side, surveying Regina curiously. “You know,” she muses, “I could just… let go, and I bet your heart would bleed black.” Regina curls and flexes her fingers over her abdomen anxiously, instinct coiling tighter. Clean, clean, her hands are clean. “Because that’s what you do, isn’t it, Regina? You bleed darkness and it touches everyone around you. It’s what you did to her, isn’t it?” Snow accuses, nodding in the direction of where her adult counterpart is still curled up next to the cradle, sobbing. “Didn’t you see her hands? Didn’t you see the mark you left?” And Regina had -- of course she had. She’d seen Snow’s hands stained with darkness while her own remain clean. She’d seen the blisters broken open across Snow’s palms while her own remained whole and undamaged._

_And then Regina remembers -- she’s not hurting herself._

_Slowly, she turns her hand to examine her palm, and it’s with a jolt of pain that she remembers the last instance in which she’d woken up and lost time._

_She’d hurt Mary Margaret with her magic._

_“That… thing that festers inside of you,” Snow says, practically spitting it at her, “all it does is cause pain.” And Regina does not know if Snow is referring to her darkness or her magic or her child, but it hardly matters, now. “That’s all it’s ever done. Maybe,” she says, fingers pulling the string of the bow a little tighter, “I should do us all a favor and just get rid of it.”_

_Regina’s stomach churns unpleasantly and the coiling instinct twists tighter, tighter. She’s running out of time, here, running out of ways to get out of this unscathed. Slowly, she lowers her left hand from its defensive position and curls it into a fist against her chest. She remembers letting go of a weapon, long ago, one given to her by Snow in order to defend herself. And Regina remembers, now, how that encounter had ended. “You’re not going to kill me,” she rasps, still rooted to the spot. “You had the opportunity before and you didn’t take it. You won’t do it now.”_

_Snow shrugs idly, grip on the bow unrelenting, but still, she doesn’t release the arrow. “The same could be said for you,” she argues. “It would’ve been so easy to kill me, back then, but you didn’t.” A pause, a grin, and then, “You didn’t have it in you, either.”_

_And then Snow’s grip on the bow slackens, and she slowly lowers it down and away._

_Relief floods Regina’s lungs, but she can still scarcely breathe through it._

_“So no, Regina, I’m not going to kill you,” Snow decides, and that much is obvious, but it’s still oddly comforting to hear. “But not because you spared me. I’m going to let you live, because this?” she says, eyes casting down to where Regina’s hand is curled over her still-small belly. “This is more than enough punishment as far as I’m concerned,” she says, voice full of sycophantic victory. “Your body will be your tomb, and you’ll be in there with nothing but dreams formed of your own regrets.”_

_Regina casts her eyes around the Hall of Mirrors, and somewhere in her, she thinks that maybe she deserves this._

_No._

_Her child is innocent, and she will not let any harm come to it._

_She has to get out of here._

_So it’s with the last bit of resolve that Regina has left that she tears her eyes away from Snow -- from all of them -- and makes one last attempt to transport herself out of here magically. It yields nothing -- not that she was expecting otherwise, at this point -- but Regina isn’t ready to give up yet. There are other ways out of here, she knows there are. There are doors in the mirrors, only doors, and where one had been an infinite loop, Regina knows that others have allowed people to come and go as they please. So it’s in a fit of desperation that she makes her way around the hall examining mirrors again, boots carelessly kicking aside the bird carcases still littering the floor. The wardrobe door flickers in and out of view near the sobbing Snow. The mirror near the child is a haze of purple smoke. And Snow -- bandit Snow -- kneels down on the ground near the mirror containing the tavern door, fingers prodding gently at a bird’s corpse. Regina presses her hands against glass again, and again, and again, but none of it yields to her touch._

_She just needs to wake up._

_She doesn’t remember falling asleep._

_Half-blind with hysteria, Regina blinks back tears and sinks down next to an empty mirror -- the one she’d been next to when she’d woken up. Again, she grips the cool metal of the pole of the mirror stand, desperate for an anchor, and wraps an arm around her middle, closing her eyes._

_Wake up, wake up, wake up._

_“Oh, Regina,” Snow says softly, startling Regina into a gasp as she snaps her eyes open. It’s the bandit again, kneeling in front of her now, weapon abandoned. And there’s something almost… kind in her eyes, something sweet in her smile. It’s enough to give Regina pause, enough to make her wonder if this Snow is different -- if this Snow will be kind. “It’s okay,” Snow says gently, taking Regina’s hand in hers. “I can help you.”_

_She’d sought Mary Margaret’s help, first._

_“You can,” Regina breathes, leaning forward a little into Snow’s touch. “You’ve been in here before. You -- you fell into fire.” All of the pieces click into places at once, and Regina finds that for the first time in what feels like a very long time, she is not afraid. “How do I get out of here?” And there’s satisfaction in Snow’s expression at that, sparking in her eyes and sweetening her smile. Slowly, she reaches her free hand into her satchel and pulls out an object, poised between her fingers._

_An apple._

_“All you have to do is take one small bite, Regina,” Snow explains encouragingly, and there is poison in the air -- the venom of vipers. “One small bite, and then you’ll be free from this prison forever.”_

_No._

_There has to be another way._

_And Regina could almost smile; even in darkness, she has not lost her hope._

_She’s lost count of how much she owes Mary Margaret at this point._

_Regina takes the apple from Snow’s hand and doesn’t hesitate to squeeze hard, breath filling her lungs as she watches the apple blacken and drip with darkness -- rotten to the core. Regina destroys everything she touches and it is the taste of freedom in here, guilt a burden she’s learning to bear. She can do this, she can survive this -- this twisted, demented, psychological warfare that’s being waged against the very fabric of her mind and soul. All she has to do is learn to embrace them both -- both the light, and the dark._

_Snow’s eyes darken as Regina lets the apple fall to the glass floor, and Regina is not afraid._

_She does not run from monsters._

_And then the whispers begin anew, but this time, their message is absolutely clear._

_Mirror, mirror, on the wall._

_Regina tears her eyes away from Snow, glancing wildly around the hall in search of the source. The voice sounds vaguely familiar, but there is no one to claim it. Regina grips the pole of the mirror stand again, slowly rising to her feet. The mirrors are an empty circle around her as she stumbles back out into the middle of the hall, and mirror, mirror, on the wall._

_Childless Snow starts to crawl toward Regina on her hands and knees, a trail of blood behind her, and mirror, mirror, on the wall. The child rises to her feet, the light dead in her eyes as she staggers her way forward, and mirror, mirror, on the wall. The bandit leads the pack now, eyes alight with mischief and murder, and mirror, mirror, on the wall._

_The whispers belong to Sidney even if Regina can’t see his face in the mirrors -- even when Regina can’t see her own -- and mirror, mirror, on the wall._

_Back Regina goes, resolve crumbling to pieces as the voices fill her ears -- mirror, mirror, on the wall. The birds come to life in a swarming storm, circling and circling overhead, and Regina’s back collides with one of the mirrors as the Snows close in. She very nearly falls in, held up only by sheer will and the knowledge that if she’s forced into one of the mirrors, it’s very likely she’ll never get out._

_Mirror, mirror, on the wall, and then someone’s hand is gripping her hair, pulling her ponytail tight and yanking back. Mirror, mirror and Regina cries out in pain, barely able to glance over her shoulder to see her attacker._

_Leopold._

_Neck bearing puncture wounds and face bone dry and blood filled with poison -- this is Leopold in death, bearing marks that may as well be her own._

_The baby._

_No._

_The instinct to protect coils and flares up bright, and before she can even really think about it, Regina’s hands are sinking into the looking glass and projecting light, sparking magic to push Leopold off of her. The force of it is enough to propel her forward, past the advancing trio of Snows and into the eye of the birds’ storm. She narrowly avoids the flightpath of one of the birds, barely noticing it as it disappears into the mirror with the tavern door. Regina falls to her knees hard in the center of the hall, as far away from the mirrors as she can possibly get, and without missing a beat, she closes her eyes and clamps her hands down over her ears to keep the voices out._

_Wake up, wake up, wake up._

_Mirror, mirror, on the wall begins to fade away, and somewhere inside of her, the instinct to protect grows stronger._

_Wake up, wake up, wake --_

* * * * *

Regina will not wake up, and Robin is once again on his knees.

He’s kneeling next to where she’s curled up on the couch in her office, papers abandoned on the floor as her fingers grip the edge of the couch tightly. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her breathing shallow and quick as she shakes and trembles in her sleep. “Regina,” he prompts, jostling her arm -- gently at first, then a little more roughly when she doesn’t respond. “Regina,” he pleads again, a little more urgently this time. Still, she doesn’t wake, but her body responds to his touch, hands sparking to life. The seam of the couch cushion begins to fray and split open, but all of Robin’s concern is for Regina. She hasn’t lost control of her magic like this in well over a week, as far as he knows, and he knows how much it hurts her when she’s awake.

He can only imagine how much it hurts when she’s asleep.

So it’s with fervent, gentle hands that Robin does his best to shift her body a little, moving her so she’s on her back instead of her side. Her fingertips brush across the back of his hand as he reaches out to brush her ponytail aside, but when the magic sparks up through her hands again, Robin is surprised by the sensation he feels.

Warmth.

It’s not quite the zinging, stinging spark he’d been expecting. It’s absent of pain when it touches his skin, the warmth he feels almost… comforting, familiar. If Regina were awake, he’d almost say it was like she recognized him before she could hurt him. But Regina _isn’t_ awake, and the magic fizzles out as soon as her hand drops limply from his.

Robin feels as if they’ve been separated by glass.

And then Regina stops breathing.

His soul splits open.

“Regina?” he breathes, settling his hands back on her arms. Nothing, not a sound or a breath or so much as a mere tremble from her, and Robin feels panic flare like fire in his soul. “Regina, wake up,” he says again, voice rougher as he jostles her a little harder to try and prompt her into waking. But it’s not working -- _why isn’t it working?_ \-- and Robin is a prisoner all over again, forced to watch his love be lost to him. “ _Regina_ ,” he pleads brokenly, tears stinging at his eyes as he moves a hand to rest over her heart.

It’s still beating.

And all at once, Robin somehow understands -- Regina is _trapped_ in there.

So Robin does the only thing he can think of -- the one thing he knows has woken her from eternal, damned slumber before.

He kisses her.

Magic coils up from her core, out her arms and into her fingertips, and it’s warmth -- warmth and recognition and fixing the fractures of his soul. Robin breathes in, and Regina breathes out.

She wakes up.

Regina gasps as she wakes, jolting as she sits upright and grips the hand Robin’s still resting over her chest with her own. She’s trembling again, hand shaking in his grasp even as she grips him too-tight, her eyes unfocused and distant. Robin could almost _cry_ , he’s so relieved, but Regina’s breath is coming out in harsh, shallow bursts again. She’s in a near-panic, clearly disoriented and struggling to breathe as she glances around wildly, so Robin reaches out his free hand to cup her jaw in an effort to get her to focus. “Hey,” he murmurs gently, struggling to keep his voice even. "It’s alright. You’re awake. I’m here, I’m right here.” It’s all she’s asked of him, in the last three weeks, to just _be here_ for her when she wakes, but even as her eyes find his and start to clear, Robin knows that won’t be enough this time. “Tell me what you need,” he requests clearly, hoping she’s cognizant enough to understand him.

Regina narrows her eyes a little, clearly trying to concentrate, but she softens a little around the edges once recognition lights up her eyes. She swallows hard and licks her lips, clearly trying to pull herself together enough to answer him, but it takes her several attempts, chest still heaving under his touch. Robin waits her out, chooses to focus on the sound of her breath, the way her heartbeat feels under his palm. “Mirrors,” she finally rasps, free hand coming up to curl around the wrist of the hand cradling her jaw. “ _I have to get away from the mirrors_ ,” she begs, and she sounds _paranoid_.

Robin’s brow wrinkles in confusion, but he doesn’t question the request. He’s lucky to have gotten that much out of her, he thinks, given how disoriented she still seems. She’s aware of his presence, that much is clear, but there’s something in her eyes that makes him think she’s not all here. It’s his turn to glance around the room briefly, eyes landing on the mirror in the far corner of the room as it catches light from one of the windows. It’s not the only mirror in her office -- he thinks there might be one or two more, somewhere -- but it’s enough for him to indulge her and try to fulfill her request. He has to get her out of here, has to get her somewhere she can calm down and breathe normally again. “Alright,” he agrees, using his hold on her hands to pull her toward him. “Let’s -- come with me,” he urges, trying to prompt her off of the couch and onto her feet.

She’s sluggish in her movements, too reliant upon his touch even as she swings her legs over the edge of the couch. He has to help her rise, hands steady and sure around her as she leans against him heavily, unsteady on her feet. Even her legs are shaking, now, her fingers curling up and around his bicep to help her stay upright. She rests her forehead against his chest, still breathing fairly hard, and he wonders, for a moment, if he’s going to have to carry her out of here. “Out,” she says through gritted teeth. “Please, _out_.”

 _Oh_.

Regina still thinks she’s trapped.

Robin can’t explain how he knows it, but he feels it with every fraught and fractured piece of his soul, feels her desperation as she clings to him for guidance -- for direction. So he pushes his confusion and hesitation away and takes one step forward, encouraged when she stumbles back enough to be standing next to him. Another step forward, and another, and Regina’s still clinging to his arm but she’s walking on her own, footsteps falling in line with his as he leads them out of her office.

They don’t run into a single soul on their way downstairs, thankfully, but Robin can hear the chatter of voices of various employees in the front of the building -- people he’d passed on his way upstairs, not long ago. He’s sure Regina wouldn’t appreciate being trotted out past them while she’s in this state and Robin is loathe to deal with them himself, knowing they’ll only create further delays. So he turns toward the back of the building instead, searching for the door that will lead out into the small yard Regina’s office overlooks. Fresh air hasn’t been doing him as much good lately as it normally does, but he thinks it might be a welcome reprieve for Regina.

He can’t help but smile at the sight of her apple tree when he pushes the back door open, memories of their time spent in the Enchanted Forest last year prompting him forward. He remembers her seeking comfort in decidedly few places during that year, remembers the way she’d looked up at the branches bearing fruit and run her fingers along the surrounding stone. The stone is gone, here in Storybrooke, but the yard is gated and surrounded by greenery that will give them enough privacy for the time being. He stops short of the roots, not wanting to sit her down just yet until he’s sure she’ll be comfortable here. “Regina?” he prompts, ducking his head to try and get a better glimpse of her face. “Is this better?”

It takes her a moment to catch her breath and acknowledge him, eyes narrowed in confused concentration as she follows the roots of the tree up to the trunk and branches and leaves. She huffs out a sharp breath at the sight of the apples, though, shoulders falling in what Robin thinks might be disappointment. It’s as much of a _no_ as Robin thinks he’s going to get out of her, so he tugs at her arm a little, ready to move on and try something else, but Regina grips his arm a little tighter to prevent him from moving. “No,” she says, voice surprisingly clear as she closes her eyes and shakes her head. “It’s not much better, but… I’ll take it. I’ll take this over the mirrors right now.” She seems a little more steady on her feet now, grip on his bicep slackening. “Can we -- sit with me?” she asks, gesturing to the base of the tree.

“Sure,” Robin agrees faintly, moving to settle gently on the ground. Regina opens her eyes and goes with his pull, sinking down to her knees as Robin rests his back against the trunk of the tree. She tucks herself under his arm and against his side and reaches for his hand, the weight of their clasped hands on his thigh warm as she runs her thumb along the back of his hand. Slowly, her breathing begins to even out, and somewhere in his soul, the flames that fuel Robin’s fear begin to flicker and fade.

This is not what Robin had been expecting when he came to visit Regina at her office this afternoon.

Afternoons are supposed to be safe, for Robin. Mornings have become fraught with tension and exhaustion at home. Nights are when he worries most, but then again, he’s loathed nights for a long time, now. Nights are when he’s afraid to fall asleep for fear of losing Regina, yes, but he also has other memories that are a little less recent that have come to make him loathe the night. His soul had broken into pieces at night, when Regina had taken the sleeping curse, and Shattered Sight had unearthed the worst parts of him. Afternoons are when he finds the rhythm is best, when he’s less concerned, less afraid of his own shadow.

Afternoons are also the times he knows he’ll catch Regina at her best, but he very rarely has the opportunity to see her in the afternoons. So he’d made the extra effort today, in the midst of everything that’s been going on, in order to make the most of it. He hadn’t been able to find her, when he’d first arrived, her office seemingly empty upon his initial perusal. It hadn’t been until he’d moved to her desk to leave her a note that he’d noticed her curled up on the couch, fast asleep.

Or so he’d thought.

It’s been nearly two months, and even after he’s broken it, the sleeping curse is still bringing Robin to his knees.

Robin inhales sharply and presses a light kiss to the side of Regina’s head, trying to put the thought from his mind for a little while. “You alright?” he murmurs.

Regina huffs out a breath but curls in a little closer. “I’ve been better,” she admits.

“Clearly,” he muses, rubbing his hand along the sleeve of her cardigan. “I didn’t figure you made a habit of falling asleep in your office in the middle of the afternoon.”

“I don’t,” she says. “I don’t even remember falling asleep, really. I just -- I remember not feeling well. I remember moving to the couch to get comfortable. But I don’t… remember falling asleep.” Her thumb stills on his hand briefly before she’s shifting her head to look up at him, brow knit in confusion. “What were you doing in my office in the middle of the afternoon?” she asks, and Robin’s unsure if she’s genuinely curious or if she’s trying to deter him from asking too many questions about what happened. “It’s Monday, isn’t it? Shouldn’t you be taking Roland to the library for Children’s Circle with Belle?”

“I… dropped him off a little early,” Robin explains, doing his best not to shift uncomfortably at the thought of where this conversation might go. He’s… hesitant to explain why, where he’d gone after dropping his son off. It’s not that he’s uncomfortable with opening up to Regina, it’s just -- Opening up to Regina now means opening the door to conversations he’s not sure he’s ready to have just yet.

But he looks at Regina now, at the way she’s curled against him, the openness in her expression, and he realizes that things are different. Her visits to the Netherworld have never quite been like this -- away from home in the middle of the day. They’re lucky, he knows, that he happened upon her at the right time. But it’s not just the nature of the visit that’s different; it’s how Regina had reached for him in the aftermath. He hasn’t done much outside of what she’s asked him for weeks, to _be here_ , but he remembers how unguarded she’d been in her speech before they’d settled down out here. He’s not sure that was entirely her choice, honestly, but he wonders if it means they’re on the precipice of more change.

He’s never been particularly good with change. Change has, more often than not, made Robin question parts of himself he’d felt rooted in, before. This year has been no exception. Between the move to Storybrooke, Marian’s return, moving in with Regina, and Roland’s enrollment in school, change has lived up to its role of shaking the surer parts of Robin’s identity. It’s why he’s clung to certain things a little more tightly than perhaps he should have: his code of honor; his duty as a father; his complete and utter devotion to the woman he loves. And Marian -- Marian had known that, had _seen_ it, and she’d identified with it.

It’s how Robin ended up seeing Doctor Hopper in the first place -- at Marian’s recommendation.

He’s only two sessions in, but Robin thinks he’s beginning to see the benefit of it, of… therapy. The word still feels awkward on his tongue and in his mind, but it doesn’t feel shameful like he’d thought it would. _That_ had been the voice of his father, he’d realized, long forgotten but still annoyingly present. Robin hasn’t felt uncomfortable with expressing the more honest, heartfelt parts of himself in a long time, but change has been doing a good job of making him question that, lately. Speaking with Doctor Hopper has started to put things back into perspective for Robin. He’d been honest, last week, in getting to the root of his problem -- that he was afraid of loss in so many ways -- and Doctor Hopper has already started to provide Robin with tools to cope in the interim.

 _Find a silver lining_ , Doctor Hopper had said today. _When change feels overwhelming or uncomfortable, when it makes you question yourself, find something good in it and try to focus on that._

So Robin had thought about a few of them on his way to Regina’s office earlier, had searched for silver linings on an overcast day. And he’d found a few: the joy he feels at being able to watch his son grow and learn; the ease with which he finds himself able to engage in conversation with Marian given their divorce; the care with which he looks after his men and followers; the family and home he takes refuge in each night; the partner he’s found in Regina -- witty and resilient and more loving and devoted than Robin could have ever dreamed. It’s why he’d decided to go to her office at all, this afternoon, because afternoons are a silver lining these days, particularly with Regina.

He’d come to her searching for hope.

Robin looks at Regina now, and the fractures in his soul start to fill with color shaded dark and light.

If he lets her in a little, maybe she’ll do the same in return.

Maybe this is the time to make change for the better.

“I had an appointment,” he admits finally, forcing himself to look her in the eyes, “with Doctor Hopper.”

Regina blinks a few times before understanding dawns in her eyes, and she’s not entirely successful at masking her surprise before she sits up a little. “You’re seeing Archie?”

Robin takes a breath to steady himself and nods. It’s his turn to rub his thumb along the back of her hand, now, an idle distraction to keep him preoccupied and focused and calm while he speaks. “This year has been… rather a lot to deal with,” he admits with a sigh. “And with what’s been happening the last few weeks, I haven’t felt entirely… like myself. Doctor Hopper came recommended to me through a friend.” He decides against telling her that it was Marian who had suggested the sessions to him. Regina would understand, he thinks, but Marian’s business is her own. It’s not Robin’s place to tell anyone that Marian’s been seeing Doctor Hopper for months.

“So it’s recent,” Regina deduces, but it’s a question.

“Very new,” Robin affirms. “Today was only my second session.”

Regina bites her lip, eyes surveying him carefully. “Do you -- you don’t have to answer this, if you don’t want to, but has it been… helpful, at all?”

It’s Robin’s turn to observe her for a moment, eyes narrowed a little in contemplation. She’s being… cautious, careful in what she says and the questions she asks, the way she phrases things. It strikes him as a little odd, at first, a little too much like she’s on tenterhooks around him for fear of saying the wrong thing. It’s not like her to treat him like this, like he’s… fragile. But he stops, really thinks about it for a moment, thinks about the way it feels familiar, and he realizes that’s not what she’s doing. Regina’s taking the same approach he has since all of this began -- the same sort of approach they’ve taken with one another from the beginning.

She’s giving him space to tell her in his own way and his own time, the same way she’d done a little over a week ago, at the diner. He remembers the questions she’d left unasked, at the bar, remembers the hand she’d held out in offering as an alternative to the whiskey he’d been battling with that morning. He thinks she’d figured out that secret on her own -- although he hadn’t hidden it very well, if he’s being honest with himself. And while Regina has been giving him space to make his own decisions, he’s also seen the way his secrets have impacted her -- that one in particular. He’d come home last week to find most of the liquor cabinets locked up, and even though they both know he could break into them easily if he really wanted to, he thinks it’s the gesture that counts.

And once again, Robin thinks that opening up to Regina now might set change in motion.

Maybe they can start to heal -- together.

So Robin musters up the barest of smiles and twines their fingers together. “I think it will be,” he says, optimistic, but it’s a truth, at least. “The whole concept is a bit… foreign to me, still, but I think I can see the benefits.”

Regina returns the smile in kind, free hand reaching up to toy with the hair at the nape of Robin’s neck. “I know how hard all of this has been for you lately,” she admits softly, “but I think you’re right to put your faith in Archie. I might have found him more helpful if I’d seen it through.”

Robin arches an eyebrow at the implication. “You’ve seen Doctor Hopper?”

Regina’s smile falters just a little, but she nods all the same. “Back, um -- after the first curse broke, after Gold brought magic to Storybrooke, I was… struggling, a bit,” she explains. Robin doesn’t have to know all of the details to know that’s probably a massive understatement, but he keeps his mouth shut and continues his gentle caress of Regina’s hand, letting her tell her story. He doesn’t want to deter her from opening up. “I was happy to have magic back again, but Henry -- Henry wasn’t happy with it. He didn’t want me to use it. So I went to Archie for help,” she sighs, relaxing against him again. “I just… wanted to be better, for my son. I didn’t want to lose him.”

Warmth blossoms in Robin’s chest at that, the ghost of an echo of the magic he’d felt from her earlier. “And look at you now,” he says. “You and Henry get along famously. And he accepts your magic now, yes?”

Light sparks in Regina’s eyes as her smile returns. “He does,” she affirms, looking a little wistful. “He’s even back to encouraging me to get help with it, although the circumstances are a bit different.” She’s quiet for a moment after that, though, light in her eyes dimming as her smile fades, and there is clear apprehension in the lines of her face as she studies him again. “Earlier, when you were trying to wake me,” she ventures, “did I -- was there magic, while I slept?”

Robin tries his best to keep his expression neutral, not wanting to alarm her. “A bit, yes.”

Regina pulls her hand away from his neck and inhales sharply. “Did I hurt you?”

She’s withdrawing, Robin can tell, apprehensive and fearful. And he remembers, then, what she’d said to him a little over a week ago, when she’d woken up from the Netherworld sick and marked -- _I’m just trying to protect you_. He can see it now, in the way she’s concerned about having inflicted pain upon him, in the way she’s starving him of her touch to prevent potential pain. But Regina’s version of protecting people often involves keeping things to herself, and it’s the _last_ thing Robin wants, especially today. He wants to help her -- he’s _always_ wanted to help her -- but he can’t do that if she doesn’t talk to him, if she doesn’t open up. He has to prevent her from putting her walls back up, and right now, that constitutes giving her a reason not to.

She doesn’t have to protect him if she’s not hurting him.

Robin reaches out his free hand to cup her face and maintain eye contact. “You didn’t,” he assures her. She inhales sharply again, looking like she doesn’t quite believe him, so Robin squeezes her hand a little tighter. “I swear to you, Regina, you didn’t hurt me.”

It’s a long, tense moment before Regina exhales slowly and removes his hand from her face. She’s got both of his hands in hers now, and it’s there she redirects her gaze for another moment or two before she speaks again. “What… do you know about the Netherworld?”

 _Finally_.

Robin takes a breath to steady himself, knowing he needs to tread carefully if this conversation is to last. “Mostly what Henry’s told me,” he says, and _that_ gets her to look up at him almost immediately, brow knit in concern. “Just… what he said that night you woke up screaming,” he amends. “He said that it’s a place between the living and the dead. It’s where the souls of victims of a sleeping curse go. And it has different -- I don’t know, wings or something, I guess? He said you might… come back with burns, from that room full of fire.”

Regina relaxes a little, but she still looks nervous, uncomfortable, her hands tensing in Robin’s grasp. “The Red Room,” she says faintly. “After the curse is broken, that’s the place the soul is supposed to go.”

He has so many questions about it -- why she’d come back with marks on her wrists instead of burns chief among them -- but he knows better than to ask them now. Regina will more than likely answer them in her own time, if Robin plays his cards right. For now, all he can do is follow where she leads him. He thinks about what she’s just told him and lingers on the implication tucked away there -- _supposed to_.

And in that moment, all of the pieces start to click into place: the mirror she’d broken in their bedroom; the lack of burns on her arms; her pleas when she’d woken up a little while ago.

 _Mirrors_ , she’d said. _I have to get away from the mirrors_.

Robin pushes himself up off of the tree trunk a little, the realization dawning on him. “You’re not going to the Red Room,” he surmises. “You’ve been going back to that -- what, that hall full of mirrors?" Regina swallows hard, eyes full of apprehension, but slowly, she nods. Robin’s brow knits in confusion; he only has more questions. “That’s… not what’s supposed to happen,” he says, fumbling to make sense of it.

“Believe me, I’m well aware,” Regina drawls, looking away from him. And that -- that feels like her, using sarcasm as a defense against her fear.

Robin adjusts his grip on her hands and ducks his head a little to try and get her to look at him again. They’re past the point where they can just drop the subject, he thinks. Letting her put walls back up isn’t really an option anymore. “And you don’t know why,” Robin continues, trying valiantly to get them on the same page. “You said you didn’t understand it.”

Regina takes a measured breath before looking back over at him. “No,” she admits, voice thick. “No, I don’t.”

Robin hesitates for a moment, trying to figure out how best to go about prompting her for details. “Henry said you could come back from the Red Room with burns,” he says haltingly. “But that’s… not what’s been happening. That hall full of mirrors -- it’s been affecting you in other ways.” He stops himself from running his thumbs along her now-healed wrists, knowing there’s more to this than that. Regina looks acutely uncomfortable at the direction this is going, but she doesn’t look away, doesn’t let go of his hands. “What… happens to you in there?” he asks, and it’s the most direct he’s been since all of this started. “What do you see?” Regina inhales sharply at the question, fear apparent in her eyes, and somewhere in him, Robin thinks he’s beginning to understand.

Talking about it makes it real.

She pulls away from him a little, shifting to recline against the tree trunk and bend her knees, but before Robin can even begin to feel disappointed at the prospect of her withdrawing, Regina’s adjusting her grip on his hand and closing her eyes, exhaling heavily. She’s not putting walls back up, he realizes -- not with him, at least. She’s bolstering herself for what she’s about to tell him, and the intensity with which she grips his hand now tells him that this is not easy for her.

All Robin can do is _be here_.

A swallow, a measured breath, and Regina finally starts talking. “Visions,” she says, the word sounding a little awkward on her tongue. “They’re -- I see… visions.”

“In the mirrors?” Robin asks, trying to develop a clearer picture for himself.

“Sometimes,” Regina says, quick and short and _oh_ , her hand is shaking in his grasp, now. She wants to get this over with, he realizes, wants as few interruptions as possible in order to get through it at all. So Robin reclines more comfortably against the tree again and just watches her, thumb running soothingly along the back of her hand. “Sometimes they’re just in the hall with me.”

She’s quiet for a long few moments after that, and Robin thinks that maybe she could use a little more prodding to keep her going. “What are they of, these… visions?”

“People, mostly. Sometimes they’re living. Those -- those I don’t think are real,” she says, but she doesn’t sound sure of herself at all. “Sometimes they’re dead. Those -- those I’m less sure about.” She shrinks back a little against the tree as she says it, clearly uncomfortable at the thought.

She looks afraid.

Robin inches a little closer to her, trying not to crowd her too much. “What do they do?”

“Mostly, they just… talk,” she explains, brow knitting a little. “Taunt, really. They… try to get under my skin.”

“Try to,” Robin echoes, knowing there has to be more to it than that.

Regina’s hand trembles in his grasp even worse, now, and when she opens her eyes, Robin is surprised to find them wet with tears. “It’s like they -- they try to pick my mind apart,” she confesses, and she sounds so broken in that moment that Robin can’t help but shift closer and drop a kiss to her shoulder. “Every once in awhile, they get a little… aggressive.”

Robin’s blood runs cold.

“Aggressive?” he asks, unable to help sounding alarmed as he lifts his head a little to look at her properly. He can feel her grow more tense next to him, fingers flexing in his grasp anxiously before she turns her head to meet his eyes. He can see it there, the truth in her irises, and the pieces start to click into place. “The marks on your wrists,” he breathes, thumb dipping up underneath her cardigan to brush against healed skin. “Who did that to you?”

She’s _barely_ holding it together, that much is obvious, her lips twisting in an effort to hold the rest of the truth back before she finally gives in. “My mother.”

Robin huffs out a breath and angles his body toward hers, incredulous. “Your _mother_ did that to you?”

Regina squirms a little in place, clearly growing more uncomfortable by the minute. “It wasn’t the first time she’s done something like that,” she argues, and bloody hell, she is _rationalizing_.

“ _Regina_ \--”

“Don’t,” she interjects, cutting him off, and she is _this_ close to breaking down, he can see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice. “Robin, I know -- I _know_ that you’re upset, okay? I know you’re worried about me. I know you want to help,” she says, reaching for his other hand now. “But I don’t -- I don’t know that you _can_. It’s -- that’s one of the reasons I put off telling you about it in the first place. I thought it might make things worse -- knowing and still not being able to do anything about it.”

“But you don’t _know_ that,” he argues back, barely able to contain his frustration. “You don’t know that talking about it won’t help, so you just don’t even _try_? That’s not like you, Regina.”

“You don’t understand,” she says thickly, tears brimming on her eyelashes. “This isn’t like talking to Archie. Talking about it doesn’t somehow provide me with a solution, Robin. I’m not -- this is beyond my control. I’m not where I’m supposed to be. And it’s not like I _want_ to be there. I keep -- I keep trying to find ways out of the Hall of Mirrors and I _can’t_. I’m --”

“-- trapped,” Robin breathes, and at Regina’s nod, all of the fight leaves him at once. He finally understands what it is that she’s asked of him, in the last few weeks.

 _Be here_ , she’d asked him, because if he’s here with her when she wakes, then she’s not _there_.

Tears finally spill onto Regina’s cheeks, and all Robin can do is pull her ache in his direction. “Come here,” he murmurs, pulling on her hands to get her to curl up against him again. He wraps his arms around her as she tucks her face against his neck, his lips pressed to her brow as they both try to find some manner of calm. And in that moment, Robin knows that the only thing he has to do in the midst of this mess is _love her_.

God, he loves her beyond all measure.

He _refuses_ to give up on her.

It’s several long, quiet moments of shallow breathing and fresh tears against his neck, but Robin is happy to give them to her now, happy to give her space and time to just breathe a little. He waits until he feels the tears stop, waits until she sniffs to regain a little composure before he speaks again. “Maybe talking about it won’t provide you with a solution,” he allows. “But perhaps it can offer you the same thing I think I’m getting out of my sessions with Doctor Hopper.”

Regina pulls back just enough to look him in the eye. “Which is what?” she asks, sounding tired.

“Perspective,” he says. “Maybe looking at it through my eyes will open yours to something you haven’t noticed.”

Something shifts in Regina’s eyes, at that, and it only takes a moment before he feels her body start to relax against him. There’s a hint of a smile playing at her lips as she rests a hand over his heart, but he barely manages to catch a glimpse of it before it’s gone. “What, um -- what do you want to know?” Regina asks, clearing her throat.

Robin exhales in relief, grateful for the opportunity to at least _try_ to help her with this. He brings up a hand to rest over hers on his chest, thumb running across her knuckles. He remembers the warmth of her touch, earlier, remembers the way her magic had felt, and he figures that’s as good a place to start as any. “What’s been happening with your magic,” he says, trying to put his thoughts in order. “Does that have anything to do with this -- with the Netherworld -- or is it just a result of what happened with Gold?”

Regina sighs heavily and shifts again, resting her head against his shoulder. “I’m not sure,” she admits. “My magic’s mended before, when it’s been broken. But this feels… different. It’s different when I’m awake. I can’t really access it on my own yet, and when it manifests, I can’t control it.”

It takes Robin a moment to pick up on the implication. “When you’re awake,” he parrots. “So when you’re asleep, it’s different? When you go to the Hall of Mirrors, you can use your magic there? You can control it?”

“It’s… complicated,” Regina sighs, curling in a little closer.

Robin’s mouth twitches upward in amusement. “I may be a fairly simple man, Regina, but I think I can handle it. Try me.”

He can feel her smile against his shoulder, even if only for a moment. “It’s not that I can control it there, exactly,” she explains. “It just… manifests in a more controlled manner. It doesn’t always come when I call it. It’s usually just -- I feel the need to protect and it comes from there. I just follow the instinct.”

“Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be,” Robin ventures. He’s a bit out of his depth, here, with magic, but this -- perspective -- is all he has to offer her right now. “Your magic isn’t bonded to Gold anymore. Perhaps it has to tether itself to your soul first, before you can use it properly again. And what you’re seeing in the Hall of Mirrors, those visions -- they’re just an illusion.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Regina admits with a sigh, but she presses a kiss against his neck in an expression of her gratitude. “The Netherworld exists, Robin. My body may be here, when I visit there, but everything that happens feels real. And the magic in there -- it’s not like anything I’ve ever felt before. It feels… foreign.”

“What,” Robin asks, “like it belongs to someone else?”

A beat, and then Regina’s sitting upright rather abruptly, light dawning in her eyes as if she’s just realized something. “ _Yes_ ,” she says emphatically, eyes unfocused and distant and she looks out across the yard. “It’s not _my_ magic I can’t control.”

Robin observes her carefully for a moment, brow wrinkling as he tries to follow her line of thought. He thinks he’s past the point of needing to prompt her into talking, but he still has questions of his own, things he needs to know to make at least some sense out of all of this. “So whose magic would it be, then?” he asks, trying to bridge the gap between the bond she’d broken and the harrowing experiences she’s having in the Hall of Mirrors. “Gold’s?”

“No,” Regina breathes, still not looking at him. But she smiles, actually _smiles_ an honest to god genuine smile that’s full of relief, and she sounds almost happy. “ _The baby’s_.”

It takes a second for her words to sink in, but once they register with him, it’s like everything inside of him just… stops. And for a moment, all of Robin’s questions and fears and concerns about what’s been happening -- about the Netherworld and Regina’s magic -- just… fade into white noise. Slowly, he pushes himself away from the trunk of the tree to move closer to her. He can’t take his eyes off of her, now, can scarce _breathe_ at the implication she’s left hanging in the air, and it takes everything in him to find his voice and speak again. “The what?” he asks, throat feeling dry.

Regina draws in a breath -- probably to answer him -- but she falters when she turns to look at him. He can see it, in her eyes, the recognition of what she’s just done, the tentative apprehension that quickly takes its place. She opens her mouth and then closes it, licks her lips and shifts uncomfortably on the grass, clearly unprepared. “This… really wasn’t how I planned on telling you,” she admits.

All of the air leaves Robin’s lungs at once. “You’re _pregnant_?”

Regina bites her lip, clearly trying to find the right words here, but she doesn’t speak -- not at first, at least. Slowly, she reaches for his hand, and before he can so much as register her touch, she’s moving it past her cardigan and beneath her shirt, pushing the waistband of her slacks down a little to rest his hand against the skin of her lower abdomen. And he can feel it then -- the ever-so-slight curve of her belly that most certainly wasn’t there a week ago and _how has he not noticed that before now_? “I’m pregnant,” she affirms, and there’s something tentative in her voice and expression, almost like she wants to smile but is holding back.

God, he must look a sight right now, slack-jawed and stunned, but he cannot bring himself to care. He shifts his hand slightly along the curve of her belly, needing to feel it, needing to know that it’s real. “How -- how far along are you?” he asks, still a bit disbelieving that this is only now just coming to light.

“I just started my second trimester,” she answers quietly, cheeks coloring when Robin raises an eyebrow in silent question. “I… may have been a little slow in putting the pieces together,” she admits. “I took a few home tests a little over a week ago, but I didn’t really want to say anything until after I’d seen Whale. I couldn’t get an appointment until Friday afternoon, and then the boys came home for the weekend. This is the first real opportunity I’ve had to talk to you about it.”

Robin exhales slowly, mind buzzing with questions. He’s not even sure where to begin, really, mind full of mirrors and magic and _oh_. Regina had wanted to wait to say anything until she’d seen Whale, had probably wanted to make sure everything was alright, given all she’s been through in the last few months. He can understand her trepidation, now, but it’s not enough to soothe his own. “You saw Doctor Whale,” he says, trying to focus. “On Friday. Is -- does that mean everything’s alright?”

Regina runs her thumb along the back of his hand reassuringly, but her smile is tight around the edges. “So far, so good.”

Robin narrows his eyes, contemplating. It’s not -- Regina wouldn’t lie to him about something like this, he’s fairly certain of that. But there’s something else, there, something she’s not telling him, and it’s with a quick glance down at where their hands are pressed over her small belly that a thought occurs to him. “You’re… unhappy,” he realizes, slowly pulling his hand away.

“Wh -- Robin, _no_ ,” Regina denies emphatically, reaching for both of his hands and lacing their fingers together. She takes a breath to collect herself before looking him square in the eyes, and there is such _warmth_ in her expression that he thinks maybe he’s misread the situation. “Robin, I am… overwhelmed right now,” she sighs. “I’m sure I don’t have to explain why. And I’m also a little… anxious about the whole thing for reasons I don’t really want to get into right now, but this?” she says, bringing their hands down to rest over the slight swell of her abdomen again. “I could never be _unhappy_ about this. I could never be unhappy about the opportunity to be a mother.”

And it’s there, in the bright, unabashed warmth of her smile that Robin manages to find clarity in all of this. Regina lives and breathes being a mother to their boys -- it’s one of the things Robin loves most about her, one of the things he’s identified with since he first met her. Robin’s been feeling like he’s been losing pieces of himself like this, pieces of himself as a father. But somehow, in the midst of all of their chaotic mess in the last few months, fate has seen fit to bless them with this -- with the opportunity to root themselves and expand their love, to bring their family closer.

In the midst of change, this is a silver lining.

Robin can feel the shock and ache being to fade away, and all he is left with is his love. He feels it with every beat of his heart, every breath in his lungs, and he’s not sure whether he laughs or smiles, first, but it hardly matters. “So,” he laughs wetly, startled by the tears stinging at his eyes, “we’re having a baby.”

There are tears in Regina’s eyes now, too, ones he thinks she’s not entirely thrilled about having if the way she’s blinking furiously is any indication, but she’s still smiling, even if she does look a little annoyed. “Come next spring, yes,” she affirms, laughing a little herself now, “we’ll have a baby.”

Robin releases love with the breath from his lungs, wrapping his arms around Regina’s waist and pulling her flush against him. It’s a bit awkward, given their position on the ground, but he can hardly find it in him to care. This is beyond anything he’d ever expected, with Regina. He loves her -- with every breath that he has, he loves her -- and that has always been enough, in the end. The things that have come to follow -- sharing her bed and her home, blending their families -- are things she’s given freely without him ever asking. The things he’s thought of asking -- well, the one thing, really, is something he wants rather than something he needs. He's wanted that for a while, really. But this -- having a child together -- feels much the same, an unexpected blessing he will gladly take.

And it’s now, with Regina in his arms, her hands wrapped around his back and her smile pressed against his neck, that Robin remembers what this had felt like, the first time. He remembers the coy grin Marian had given him in answer to his question, remembers her burst of laughter as he’d lifted her to her feet. He remembers watching her body change and her belly grow, remembers the arched eyebrows and annoyed remarks any time she’d caught him hovering. He remembers the partner he’d found in her when he’d take on an extra job or two, remembers long journeys and late nights to pull off successful heists to provide for their family.

He remembers the night she’d stayed out too long, the night that had been frigid and freezing, remembers the way illness had settled into her lungs. He remembers her pale complexion and fevered dreams, remembers the cough that had wracked her lungs and made it hard to breathe. He remembers the torture he’d endured to procure the wand that had saved her life, remembers watching color flush her cheeks and breath fill her lungs.

And Robin remembers, now, the lack of color in Regina’s cheeks when she’d been sick a little over a week ago, remembers feeling the notches of her spine and the sweat of fever on her brow. He remembers finding her body in Gold’s shop after she’d broken bonds, remembers the marks on her wrists from being bound and the sparking of magic that is not her own. He remembers waking up to find her gone, remembers the way panic had flared through him like fire and _what if he wakes up again and she’s not there_? He remembers the curse that had stolen breath from her body and she wasn’t breathing in her office earlier and _what happens if_ \--

“Robin,” Regina says clearly, a hand on either side of his face, and it’s obvious she’s been trying to get his attention for a while. He’s shaking, now, breath coming out in harsh bursts, and he feels fear and panic grip his soul in an iron vice. What is _happening_ to him? “Robin, talk to me,” she prompts, gentle but firm. “Tell me what you need.”

His soul _aches_ with affection for her, for the way she’s trying to be here for him in kind. It’s his turn to follow his instincts, now, and Regina bleeds into the muddled mess of his mind, into mirrors and magic and memories of Marian. He knows this feeling, knows what it is that fuels his fear, and Robin is _tired_ of carrying around this weight.

He is _terrified_ of losing her.

“Doctor Hopper,” he says, trying desperately to get his breathing under control. “I think -- I think I should go back and see Doctor Hopper.” It sounds ridiculous -- Robin _just_ saw him, after all, but it’s the only thing Robin can think of to give his ache direction, to combat the chaos that change brings upon his soul. He closes his eyes and swallows hard, tries to reaffirm his choice, tries to ignore the voice of his fucking father telling him he is _weak_ for needing this.

Love is not weakness, and Robin has had proof of that a thousand times over.

“Okay,” Regina says simply, prompting Robin to open his eyes. “If that’s what you feel like you need to do to handle this right now, then go do that,” she encourages. “I’m sure Archie will make time for you once he sees you like this. Can I -- do you want me to drive you there?”

Robin exhales heavily and shakes his head, gripping her forearms with his hands. “No,” he says thickly, closer to tears than he really wants to be right now. “No, that’s -- I’ll walk. I think this is one instance where the fresh air might do me some good again. I don’t think I could handle being in such a confined space right now.”

“Okay,” she agrees again, though she sounds a little more reluctant to do so. She removes one of her hands from his face -- probably to give him a little room to breathe, he figures -- but the other still remains. “But you’ll -- you’ll call, if you need anything?” she asks, running her thumb along the apple of his cheek.

Robin nods wordlessly and turns into her touch, pressing his lips to her palm. “Thank you,” he mumbles into her skin, knowing it’s not nearly enough to convey his gratitude for this. He’s leaving in the middle of a series of half-finished conversations -- about her experiences in the Netherworld, about the magic she’s been struggling with (their _child’s_ magic, god), about their anxiety and their joy surrounding the baby -- but Regina is sending him off with her _blessing_. “We can -- I still want to talk about this,” he insists, not wanting to abandon her like this. “All of it.”

Regina offers him a barely-there smile. “And we will,” she promises, “but maybe when you’re not on the verge of having a panic attack. _Go_ ,” she says, dropping her hand and pressing it flat against his chest. “I’ll be waiting for you when you get home.”

It’s an echo of what she’d said to him, a little over a week ago -- _go, you know how to find your way home_ \-- and once again, Robin finds himself exceedingly grateful that this woman is his soulmate. She has always given him the time and space he needs to find his own path -- to find himself. And regardless of where he ends up or which pieces of himself he finds, Regina is always there to welcome him with open arms -- to guide him home.

Regina isn’t pushing him away, and Robin does not have to do this alone.

He leaves her with one last parting kiss to her hand, the warmth of her touch lingering over the place his heart beats in his chest as he walks away. And it’s that -- the same warmth he’d felt earlier, the unmistakable _pull_ his soul feels toward her -- which gives him pause at the gate to the yard. His hand grips the gate _hard_ ; his mind is in shambles -- a mess of mirrors and magic and memories. He cannot seem to root his mind in the here and now, cannot keep it from drifting to a forest to which he can no longer travel.

_My mind was in the forest, but my heart took me here._

Heart beating him senselessly, Robin releases his grip on the gate and turns back around.

Regina hasn’t left the yard yet. She’s risen to her feet, but she’s leaning against the tree now, eyes closed and arm curled around her middle. She looks a little disappointed and a lot exhausted, almost like she could just… fall asleep. She won’t, not when she has to make her way home first, but the gravity of the situation weighs on Robin tenfold now, seeing her like this. She’s still got an hour, maybe, before Henry will arrive home from school, and it’ll be even longer before Robin returns home with Roland. Regina is running on empty _now_ , that much is obvious to Robin, and he wouldn’t be surprised if she falls right back asleep when she gets home. But if she sleeps, she’s trapped and she can’t get out and she couldn’t _breathe_ when he found her earlier.

What if --

 _No_.

Fear steals the breath from Robin’s lungs and propels him forward, back across the yard toward the apple tree. He cannot, will not lose her, and he doesn’t think twice as he closes the distance between them, cups her face with his hands, and captures her lips in a searing kiss. He nearly falls forward with the force of it, his body pressing hers more firmly against the tree trunk. Regina lets out a surprised sound against his mouth but doesn’t push him away, her hands curling around his waist to the small of his back. Where Robin is rough and urgent and insistent, Regina is gentle and slow and soothing, the eye in his storm of panic.

Somewhere in him, Robin knows that Regina loves him, even if she cannot find the words for it.

And in Regina’s arms, Robin finds hope.

* * * * *

Henry is halfway down the front path to the house -- the school bus driving off behind him -- when he stops in his tracks, narrowing his eyes in confusion at the sight of Mom’s car parked in the driveway. She’s not supposed to be home for another few hours, at least. If she’s come home early today, there has to be a reason for it, and Henry’s not all that sure it’s a good one. So he picks up his pace and jogs to the front door, dumping his backpack and coat and scarf and shoes in the foyer quickly before he goes off in search of her. He’s sure she’ll chastise him for it later -- she’s never liked it when he leaves things on the floor -- but Henry doesn’t have it in him to care right now. He’s about to call out for her when he hears the sound of the fireplace popping and crackling in the living room, so he makes his way in there first, figuring that’s as good a place to start as any.

He finds her there curled up on the couch, body angled toward the fireplace. She’s awake, at least, that much is obvious, and the brief flare of panic he’d felt a moment go starts to fade. “Mom?” he prompts, taking a few steps into the living room. She doesn’t answer him, doesn’t even turn around to look at him or acknowledge his presence. “Mom,” he tries again, a little louder this time, but she still doesn’t respond. It’s not until Henry’s a few feet away from her that he stops and notices that his storybook is settled on her lap.

Her eyes are trained on the fireplace.

Slowly, Henry reaches out and rests his hand against her arm. “Mom?” She starts a little at his touch, inhaling sharply as she looks up at him. Henry glances down at the book and then over at the fireplace before looking back at her. “You’re… not going to burn that, are you?”

Her nose wrinkles a little in confusion as her eyes follow the same path his did -- from the book to the fireplace and back again. “Oh,” she says faintly, expression clearing a little as she looks up at him again. “No, honey, I’m not -- I’m not going to burn it. Don’t worry. I was just --” Her voice trails off as she looks back down at the book again -- there’s a page sticking out awkwardly that Henry hadn’t noticed before. Her fingers toy with the corner of it for a moment before she sucks in a breath and sets the book down on the coffee table. “I just… needed a little reminder,” she says, managing a small smile as she turns her attention back on him. “Who I’ve been, who I am.”

Henry glances back down at the book apprehensively. The admission doesn’t really make him feel a whole lot better, honestly. If Mom’s looking to the book for answers again, it means that she’s losing hope in her happy ending. If that’s the case, then there has to be a reason Mom has started to doubt herself again. He’d thought they’d moved past that at the end of the summer when she’d come home -- when she’d _woken up_.

And then it hits him: this is about the Netherworld.

But Henry knows she won’t answer questions if he asks. He’s pushed her in places he thought he could get away with it -- her magic on his birthday, most recently -- but he’d had to guilt her into giving him answers. He doesn’t want to do it again, not like that, not when she’s like… this. He wants Mom to trust him and let him help her, but he also knows that if he pushes her too hard, she’ll close herself off again. And he’d _hated_ that, last spring, had hated the way she’d shut him out, because for all that Mom has learned a lot about love from him, he’s learned a lot from her, too.

Holding onto someone too hard doesn’t make them love you, and letting go is not the same as giving up.

Henry will not give up on her.

“I didn’t realize Operation Mongoose was back on,” he says finally, hoping that’s as good a place to start as any.

“Operation -- oh, no. Henry, that’s not -- that’s not why I was looking at the book,” she sighs, and it’s only then that Henry notices how _tired_ she looks.

This is definitely about the Netherworld.

He figures that’s as much of an opening as he’s going to get with her, so he sinks down on the couch next to her with a sigh and leans against the back of the couch. “Then why _were_ you looking at the book?”

Mom studies him for a moment before shifting on the couch to face him. “I just… needed a reminder that things have changed,” she says, fingers toying with a stray thread on her cardigan. “There’s so much that’s changing right now that I just… needed to remember that I’ve done it before."

And Henry hears the words she leaves unspoken: she needs to believe she can do it again.

She _needs_ him.

But she’s not going to admit it -- she’s so _stubborn_ about stuff like this sometimes -- so Henry figures that maybe this requires being a little more direct. “Things _are_ changing,” he agrees. “You don’t sleep like you used to.” She swallows hard at that, clearly uncomfortable, but Henry keeps going, doesn’t want to give her a chance to shut him down yet. “I know I’m only here half the time, but I’ve noticed. You don’t sleep like you used to,” he says again, and she’s not looking at him anymore, gaze trained on her lap. “I don’t know if you can’t sleep or if you wake up, but I hear you when you come downstairs in the middle of the night. I see the lights you turn on. I hear you when you come back up the stairs before your alarm goes off. I see how tired you look when you get home from work. I see how tired you look _now_.”

Mom flicks her eyes up to look at him, jaw working a little. She doesn’t look all that thrilled at being called out, and he _knows_ she’s not going to want to talk to him about it. But there’s something else there, too, in the way her expression goes soft and her eyes fill with warmth. _That_ he recognizes -- that he knows is love, and Henry knows that she will put that above anything else. “You’re far too observant for your own good, you know,” she huffs.

“And you’re too stubborn for yours,” he argues, unwilling to give up now. “You don’t sleep like you used to, you’re having problems with your magic, Robin -- Robin is clearly freaking out about whatever’s happening to you,” he says, and Mom sucks in a breath, looking more uncomfortable than before. “You think keeping us in the dark is helping, but it’s not. It just makes us more worried. I got off the bus today and saw your car in the driveway and I thought --” He cuts himself off because he’s not entirely sure _what_ he’d thought beyond just wanting to make sure she was okay, but he doesn’t even really get the chance to finish the thought anyway.

Mom reaches for his hand, touch gentle and feather-light, and all she has left is love in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I didn’t -- I didn’t realize it was affecting you like this. I’ve been trying to keep you out of it.”

“You can’t keep me out of something I’m already a part of,” he points out. “We’re in this together. We have been ever since you took that sleeping curse for me.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

Mom’s face turns a little pale, looking almost afraid. “That was _my_ choice, Henry,” she says, trying to pull her hand away.

Henry grips her hand hard and leans in a little closer. “So let this one be mine,” he offers. “Let me help you.”

“ _Henry_ ,” Mom says thickly, taking his face in her hands. “Henry, you can still go back to the Netherworld. And even if I don’t know that talking to you about this will make you start, it’s not a risk I’m willing to take.” And in that moment, Henry realizes that she’s doing what she always does.

Mom is protecting everyone but herself.

Something has to change.

Henry shakes his head and exhales slowly, removing her hands from his face to hold them with his own. “We already are,” he insists. “I already know you’re going to the Netherworld. I know it’s been affecting you. And honestly, that might be more than enough for me to start going back. But guess what? _I haven’t been_. And you know that I’d tell you if I was, so _please_ ,” he pleads, gripping her hands a little tighter, “tell me what’s been going on.”

He can see the struggle playing out on her face, can see the fear she has of putting him at risk, can see hope flicker and fade in her eyes. She’s still his _mom_ \-- someone who will protect him at all costs and put him first -- but she’s also so much _more_ than that. She’s the person who reached out to strangers and the person who lost love. She’s the person whose pain dragged her into darkness, the person whose love brought her back into light. She’s the person who sacrificed a heart for vengeance, and she’s the person who always puts family first.

She’s the person whose innate sense of heroism never fully disappeared, and just _once_ , Henry wishes she would use it to try saving herself.

In the end, love wins out.

“It’s… complicated,” she sighs. Henry can’t help but scoff in aggravation at the way she’s deflecting, but she shakes her head to prevent him from talking. “I just meant -- this isn’t just about the Netherworld, Henry. There are other things -- things that are… connected in ways I don’t think I realized before. I can’t explain what’s been going on in the Netherworld without explaining the other parts of it, too.”

“So start with one of the other parts,” he suggests, trying to give her a little direction in an effort to keep her talking. “Whatever you can explain on its own -- start there. Then tell me how they all fit together.”

She’s quiet as she surveys him for a minute or two, expression a mix of affection and concentration. He can tell she’s trying to find the right place to start, is trying to break down the weight she’s been bearing into more manageable pieces, and this, he thinks, is really what she’s been needing. She’s needed someone to help her do this, to make sense of what’s been going on, and as irritated as he is that it’s taken her this long to do it, Henry is glad that she’s finally allowing someone to help her. He knows that she’d gone to see someone about her magic on his birthday, had practically pushed her into it himself, but her magic is only one piece of the puzzle. Even if Mom’s been asking someone else for help with the Netherworld, he doesn’t think she’d be completely honest with whoever she approached.

Mom can’t protect herself with just the pieces, and Henry wants to help her put them all together.

Something sparks in her eyes then, like she’s found the right place to start, but her expression changes into one of clear nervousness almost immediately. She looks a little uncomfortable again as she shifts on the couch, eyes dropping to where their hands are joined together. “I _really_ did not plan on telling you this today, either,” she murmurs, the barest hint of a laugh in her voice. Henry wrinkles his brow in confusion, but before he can ask her what she means, she’s taking a breath and squaring her shoulders before looking up at him again. She’s still nervous, that much is clear, her smile tight and awkward, but there’s also warmth behind her eyes. This isn’t about the magic, either, he realizes, but whatever it is, she’s ready to talk. “How do you feel about us… expanding our family?”

“What, you mean like -- _oh_ ,” he says, the realization dawning on him. It’s his turn to shift a little uncomfortably on the couch now as he releases one of her hands to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I mean, I’m… fine with it? I guess it’s kind of a little soon, but they do already live here. We’re already pretty much a family, Mom. You and Robin getting married just kind of makes that official, I guess.”

Mom arches her eyebrows, clearly not expecting his reaction. “What -- no,” she says, shaking her head a little. “I mean, it’s nice that you think of them as your family too, Henry, but that’s not what I meant. Robin and I haven’t even talked about that -- not yet, anyway.”

Henry can’t help but smile at her, amused at how flustered she’s become. He remembers seeing the same sort of color in her cheeks when he’d caught her kissing Robin at Granny’s in the spring, and he’s glad he can still manage to get the same reaction out of her now that it’s autumn. He knows they’re all still carrying around the weight of what happened during the summer, knows that autumn isn’t looking to be any lighter. But there’s a lightness about her when it comes to Robin, a different kind of warmth to her smile, and Henry thinks that even if they haven’t talked about it, he wouldn’t mind so much if they did end up getting married. “Not yet, huh?” he teases.

“Not what I meant, Henry,” she says again, but there’s a hint of a smile on her lips. She takes a breath like she’s going to say something else, but then she’s looking down again, thumb running along the back of his hand.

She’s still nervous.

She’s still nervous and she’s _quiet_ , and it’s only now that Henry realizes that he’d guessed wrong. And if he’d guessed wrong, then she’d meant something else when she’d asked him about their family -- about expanding it. He wrinkles his forehead as he tries to figure out what she meant. He can’t imagine that she’d be open to the idea of adopting a dog no matter how hard Roland begs for one. It hadn’t worked for Henry, growing up. Mom has always been insistent on keeping things clean, and she’d argued that dogs were too much work for him at seven. He can’t imagine she’d feel different about a five-year-old trying to take care of a puppy.

Which leaves --

“ _Holy shit_ ,” Henry breathes.

Mom snaps up her head to level him with a _look_. “ _Language_ , Henry,” she scolds, _tsk_ ing in disapproval.

“Sorry,” he huffs, the apology automatic. “But seriously, Mom, _holy shit_.” She makes an exasperated sound at him and pulls her hand away, clearly ready to launch into a lecture, but Henry doesn’t give her the chance to even start. “You’re pregnant.” The annoyance in her expression gives way to surprise, but it’s different than before. This time, Mom exhales slowly and bites her lip, and Henry knows that he’s right. “Holy shit,” he says again, unable to help himself as he leans against the back of the couch.

Mom purses her lips in what Henry knows is an attempt not to smile. “I hope you watch your mouth around Roland,” she chastises, but there’s no heat behind it.

“You know I do,” he dismisses, resting his head on his hand. “Have you told Robin yet?”

She hesitates for a moment before mirroring his position and leaning against the back of the couch. “Earlier this afternoon, actually,” she sighs, still clearly trying not to smile.

“How’d he take it?”

“Well, I think,” she says, but she sounds unsure. “He seemed… happy, but I think he’s also a little anxious. I can’t say I blame him, given everything else that’s been going on. It’s not like we planned this.” She pauses, here, looking more reluctant to smile than ever, and Henry wonders what else she’s not telling him. “You… still haven’t answered _my_ question, though.”

It takes him a minute to remember what she’s even talking about. “What -- oh. How do _I_ feel about it?” Mom nods, just barely, and he realizes why she’d been so nervous about telling him. She’s probably worried that he’s upset about it. And he’s not -- not at all, really. He’s surprised, yeah, but he’s also already kind of used to the idea. Roland is becoming as much of a brother as Henry thinks he could ever have. In spite of the age difference, Henry _likes_ spending time with Roland. He likes Roland’s sense of adventure and love of books, likes the way his eyes light up when he learns something new. He likes having someone look up to him, for a change, and he loves the way Roland makes Mom smile.

But it’s not something he’s really talked about with her outside of the initial conversation they’d had about the Hoods moving in, so Henry thinks he understands where her apprehension is coming from. “Do you remember,” he says, smiling a little, “when you picked me up after my first day of school? Do you remember what I told you?"

Mom _does_ smile at that, finally, the memory filling her eyes with warmth. “You complained about Kiara Pryde,” she says. “You said she wouldn’t shut up about her brothers and sisters.”

“Because I was _jealous_ ,” he laughs. “I asked you why I didn’t have any brothers or sisters to play with.”

Mom wrinkles her nose at the memory. “I don’t think I handled that conversation particularly well,” she muses. “It didn’t exactly bode well for the adoption conversation later, either.”

“You’re missing the point,” he says, not wanting her to dwell on her mistakes. “The point is that I’ve been bugging you about _expanding our family_ since I was five.”

That gets another smile out of her, but her eyes are a little wet, like she’s fighting not to cry. “You’re not upset, then?”

Henry narrows his eyes, smile faltering. “Why would I be upset?” he asks. “Roland and I get along just fine. Why would this be any different?” She looks down and away from him again, shifting a little uncomfortably on the couch, but she doesn’t have to say anything before Henry puts the pieces together. “ _Mom_ ,” he says, reaching for her hand to get her to look at him again. “Mom, you took a _sleeping curse_ for me this summer,” he breathes. “If I had any doubts about how much you loved me before that -- which I _didn’t_ , remember? -- then that would’ve gotten rid of them.” He pauses, takes a minute to consider her before sitting up straight and scooting closer to her. He starts to move his hand underneath her cardigan to rest against her belly, but he hesitates when he hears her sharp intake of breath. He meets her eyes for a moment, notices the way she’s gone a little tense and her expression has turned a little wary. He doesn’t think she’s uncomfortable with him, but Henry also _knows_ his mom, and he knows how much she dislikes people touching her without permission. He remembers what it’d been like when Grandma had been pregnant with Neal, remembers the tight smiles she’d force when people would touch her belly without asking first.

Mom might be okay with being pregnant, but he can’t imagine any of this is going to be _easy_ for her. She’s worked too hard, come too far to have her happiness tested like this, and even if she’s put Operation Mongoose on hold indefinitely, Henry thinks he might pick it back up again. He’s not sure he ever really gave it up.

He’s never really stopped fighting for her.

But this -- this is _her_ choice, and Henry doesn’t want to make her feel more uncomfortable than she already does. So he holds her hand and meets her eyes and waits her out until she visibly relaxes. She still looks really uncomfortable -- nervous and unsure of where he’s going with all of this -- but she doesn’t push him away. It’s only when she pushes her cardigan aside a little that Henry knows she’s giving him permission, and it’s only then that he tries again. He moves his hand to rest gently against her stomach and _whoa_ , that feels different, the way her belly has started to curve a little. He stops for a minute to catch his breath and clear his throat, the reality of the situation sinking in. And when he meets her eyes again, he smiles, wishing more than anything that he could just get her to _believe_. “Just because I didn’t come from here doesn’t mean you love me any less.”

And everything in her eyes -- the fear and anxiety and exhaustion -- gives way to the spark he’s used to seeing, beaming beacons bearing belief and love. But there’s relief there, too, and it’s that, he thinks, which prompts her to finally start to cry. “Oh, _Henry_ ,” she murmurs, finally pulling him into her arms. “Henry, I know that. I just needed to make sure you did.”

Henry huffs out an indignant laugh and curls his arms around her waist to hold her closer. “How could I believe otherwise?” he asks. “You _chose_ me. Love doesn’t get any greater than that.”

“No,” she agrees, laughing through her tears, “it really doesn’t.” She anchors a hand behind his head to cradle him close, and even at thirteen, Henry finds comfort at being held by his mother.

This life they have together has always been their choice. It had been her choice to bring him home and raise him on her own. It had been his choice to leave when she gave him the option. It had been her choice to change, and it had been his choice to see _her_ beyond it. It had been her choice to let him go and give him his best chance with Emma. It had been his choice to stay in Storybrooke, to come _home_ and help Mom find her happy ending.

It had been her choice to take the sleeping curse for him this summer, and she’d used the same words to comfort him back then that he’s used just now -- _it doesn’t mean you love me any less_. He’d needed that, back then, to starve the guilt that weighed down his heart at being unable to help her, and even now that it’s autumn, Henry thinks he still feels much the same. He still _loves_ her, still just wants to help her, but where he didn’t back then, Henry thinks he still has the opportunity to do so now.

This is still his choice.

But there’s so much that he still doesn’t know, so much he doesn’t understand. Henry can’t help her if she doesn’t help him first, if she doesn’t give him something to work with. And while the news about the baby is an unexpected but not unpleasant surprise, it doesn’t really tell Henry a whole lot other than there’s a whole extra person to protect now. So he pulls out of her embrace, brow knit in confusion, and wonders why she’d chosen to start with this.

“Henry,” she says, ducking her head a little to get a better look at him. “Are you… sure you’re alright with this? You look… uncomfortable.”

“What, no,” he denies quickly, shaking his head. “I mean, _yes_ , I’m okay with it. I just… don’t understand what this has to do with everything else,” he admits. “Your magic and the Netherworld -- what does the baby have to do with any of that?”

She huffs out a breath and rubs tiredly at her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose for a second before looking at him again. “That’s where things start to get a little complicated,” she sighs. Another pause, this one longer, and Henry watches as her gaze falls back to the book on the coffee table. She wants to pick it up again; he can tell by the way her fingers twitch and flex in her lap. But she doesn’t reach for it, just bites her lip and stares at it for a moment before turning her attention back to him. Her eyes are full of warmth, but her smile is halfhearted at best. “Are you hungry?” she asks. “I feel like baking.”

Henry narrows his eyes a little at the abrupt change of subject, but it only takes him a minute to realize that she’s not brushing him off. He drops his gaze down to where her hands are clasped in her lap, twisting and wringing. She’s still obviously really anxious about having this conversation with him, and he knows how Mom gets when she’s stressed. She falls into the same few habits she always does to preoccupy herself long enough to find calm again. Baking is one of the ways she does it -- one of the ways she’s always done it. The house had been full of fresh baked goods all summer: warm pies and loaves of bread and apple turnovers.

She needs this to keep talking.

“We could make dessert for later,” he suggests, flexing his own fingers now in an effort to not reach out and put an end to her fidgeting. “Roland hasn’t tried your sugar cookies yet, and I haven’t had them since I came back to Storybrooke.”

She visibly relaxes at the suggestion, hands finally stilling in her lap. “Those sound… _really_ good right now, actually,” she admits with a laugh, fingers brushing against her stomach.

Henry arches an eyebrow but smiles, leaning in a little closer and pressing his hand against her stomach again. “You are totally a Mills,” he murmurs dryly. A laugh bubbles out of Mom, warm and wet and happy, and Henry can’t help but grin a little wider as he takes her by the hand and leads her into the kitchen.

He’s the one to sift through the index cards in her recipe box in the kitchen. It _has_ been a long time since he’s had these, but it’s been even longer since he’s helped make them. He’d stopped baking with her once he found out about the adoption, and after Emma -- well, a lot of things changed, after Emma. Henry doesn’t feel like he’s had much opportunity since everything changed to really just… spend time with his Mom the way he used to. Beach trips and baking and bedtime stories -- these are all things he’s really _missed_ doing with her. The fact that he’s thirteen now just kind of makes him miss them more, honestly, because it reminds him of how much time with her he’s lost in the last three years.

So Henry is the one to pull out the recipe card and ingredients and supplies while Mom preheats the oven and then makes herself a snack. He watches her cut up a green apple into slices while he organizes the ingredients on the kitchen island. That has to be the baby, he thinks -- the sudden preference to green apples over red ones -- and it takes a lot of effort for him not to laugh at the change.

Things are changing.

Things are changing, but as he watches her sink down onto a barstool and start to eat her apple slices, Henry thinks that maybe his mom is still the same. She’s changed, obviously, but there are still so many things about her that are the same as his memories. She still drops everything she’s doing at work if he drops by her office. She still fusses over him when he forgets his gloves. She still believes in sitting together at the dinner table. She still bakes when she’s stressed. She still eats the same way -- pronounced bites and wrinkled nose and all.

Above all else, Mom still _loves_ the same way, and even though she’s looking for reminders of how far she’s come, Henry thinks that’s the one thing about her that will never change.

She doesn’t speak for a few minutes as she munches on apple slices and he measures out the dry ingredients for the cookies. He can feel her eyes on him as he focuses on making sure he’s got the measurements exactly right (because _baking is an art, Henry, but it’s also a science_ ). It’s not until she’s more than halfway through her bowl of apple slices and he’s turned the mixer on low that she -- without warning -- says, “I’m not going to the Red Room.”

Henry pauses for a minute before wiping his hands off on a towel and turning the mixer off. He narrows his eyes and studies her for a moment or two, thinking. He’s not Emma -- he can’t always tell when people are lying -- but he knows his mom well enough to know when something’s not right. This doesn’t feel like a lie, and it doesn’t feel like she’s hiding something behind the truth of what she’s just shared with him. But something definitely doesn’t feel right, and it makes Henry uneasy. His eyes fall to her arms the same way they did the night she’d woken up screaming, and not for the first time, Henry worries that her skin might be burned. Slowly, he reaches out a hand and drags his fingers along the sleeve of her cardigan, eyes meeting hers purposefully.

Mom places her hand over his to still his movement and gently pushes his hand aside. Before he has a chance to protest, though, she’s shrugging off the cardigan and setting it aside on the island. The sleeves of her shirt are short, revealing most of her arms, but she still makes a point to hold her arms out on display across the island for Henry to see. “No burns,” she assures him quietly. “And I can’t heal that quickly without my magic. _Trust me_ , Henry. Given how little control I’ve had over things lately, if I was going to the Red Room, you’d see the proof of it.”

Something in Henry relaxes a little, but he can’t shake the feeling that something about all of this is still really wrong. He reaches out to grasp her hand with his again, eyes sweeping over her arms before looking back up at her. “But you’re still going to the Netherworld.”

She sucks in a breath before pulling her hand away and folding her arms. She looks the most nervous she has since he got home a little while ago, and she doesn’t quite meet his eyes when she asks, “What… do you remember about the Hall of Mirrors?”

Henry blinks in surprise, but he sees the way her fingers are flexing again, can feel the tension bleeding off of her in waves. She’s still worried about him going back to the Netherworld, that much is obvious. But he also realizes that the closer she gets to explicitly telling him what’s been going on, the more agitated she becomes. He’s running out of time to hand their baking project over to her if he wants to keep her calm enough to keep talking. So he shifts his attention back to the mixing bowl and focuses on the answer to the question she’s asked. “Um, not much,” he admits, turning the mixer back on and reaching for the eggs. “I wasn’t really in there for very long, and it was so long ago that everything is just kind of… fuzzy. After Emma woke me up, I started going to the Red Room, instead. I never went back to the Hall of Mirrors.” He pauses for a moment before looking over at her, the realization dawning on him. “But that’s not what’s happening to you.”

“I think your experience is far more typical,” Mom assures him. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees her body relax a little. “Everyone else we know who has been under a sleeping curse seems to have had the same experiences that you’ve had.”

Henry waits for a moment, tongue sticking out in concentration as he peers into the mixing bowl to make sure that the dough has come together nicely before he turns the mixer off. He decides he’ll leave the rest to her -- she’s always been better than he has at prying the dough off of the beaters and rolling it out. So he reaches for the towel again to wipe off his yolk-sticky hands before retrieving her apron and handing it to her. There’s a hint of a smile on her face as she takes it from him, and it doesn’t go away even when he leans against the far counter and nods at the mixing bowl in silent direction. “But not you,” he says, making sure he keeps her talking. “You’re… not going to the Red Room.”

Mom meets his eyes across the island, and her silence is answer enough.

She’s been going back to the Hall of Mirrors.

He feels a lot like he did when he saw her car in the driveway earlier. He doesn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. She’s right -- no one else they know has had this kind of experience in the Netherworld. Henry’s not entirely sure what to think right now. He doesn’t -- he still doesn’t have all of the pieces, not yet. He has questions, at least, questions he hopes she’ll answer to give him a clearer picture of what’s been happening to her.

But before he can even really think about which one to ask first, Mom is squaring her shoulders and sliding off of the barstool. She keeps her hands busy by tying the apron around her as she moves around the island to the workspace. Her belly is a little more pronounced this way, prominent under the tight hold of the apron, and Henry fights back a smile. It’s definitely going to take some getting used to, watching her body change as the baby grows. But as happy as he _thinks_ his mom seems to be about it, he also remembers what she’d said earlier. Robin might be anxious about it, but Henry thinks Mom is, too. And Henry knows -- he _knows_ that all of this, what’s been happening to her, is one of the reasons for that.

If she doesn’t get help, their family is going to fall apart before it even has a chance to expand.

Henry rests his arms on the island and leans forward, watching carefully as she starts to scrape the dough off of the beaters and the sides of the bowl. She needs to keep her hands busy, that much is obvious, but he doesn’t want her to use baking as a distraction from actually talking about this. So it’s with as much patience as he can muster up that Henry draws in a breath and tries to use his questions to give them both direction. “You’re going back to the Hall of Mirrors,” he says, and he doesn’t miss the way her hands falter a little. “But it’s not like it was the first time around, is it? It’s different. Things are… changing.”

Mom takes a measured breath and sets the spoon aside with a soft _clink_. She’s… slow, methodical about the way she dusts the island with flour, about the way she gathers up the dough in a ball and sets it on the countertop. Her eyes are narrowed and her lips are pursed as she detaches the beaters from the mixer and sets them in the bowl, and she doesn’t quite look him in the eye when she hands the bowl over to him. “Soak those in some soap and water, please,” she requests.

It takes everything in him not to roll his eyes in exasperation. She’s stalling, dragging this out, and as much as Henry knows that she needs to do this at her own pace, his patience is starting to wear thin. She is still his mother to a _fault_ , trying to protect him even when he’s told her that she might not be able to this time. He can’t help her like this, can’t try to give her direction, can’t try protecting _her_ for a change. But he doesn’t want to be angry with her, knows that it’ll only do more harm than good, so he bites his tongue and takes the bowl and beaters over to the sink to do as she asks.

He’s trying to think of another way to get her to open up to him more when he returns to the island, but he’s barely settled onto the barstool before she speaks again. “Yes,” she says, quiet and barely there. She’s still not looking at him -- her eyes are trained on the ball of dusted dough in front of her -- but her hands are gripping the edge of the island counter _hard_ , and that’s when Henry knows that she’s finally ready to share her secrets. “Things have… changed, in the Hall of Mirrors.”

A beat, and then Henry’s reaching for the rolling pin and holding it out in offering. “Tell me how,” he prompts, smiling a little encouragingly at her. “What happens when you’re in there?”

She eyes the rolling pin for half a moment before taking it from him. “I… see things,” she says, hesitating for a moment before reaching for more flour to dust over the rolling pin. “I see people. People I know, or… people I knew.” Another pause as she narrows her eyes, rolling pin hovering over the ball of dough. “I’m never really sure if they’re real or not.”

It’s Henry’s turn to narrow his eyes now. The fact that she’s not alone in there is definitely not something he was expecting. He’d been alone in there when he’d been under the sleeping curse, and if seeing people in the Hall of Mirrors is a change for Mom, then he’s willing to bet she was alone too, the first time around. He still has so many questions -- more than before -- but he tries to focus on one thing at a time in order to make sense of what she’s telling him. “These people,” he says slowly, “who are they? You said you know them.”

One last moment of hesitation, and then Mom’s finally rolling out the dough with the pin. “People like your mother,” she says. “Like mine.”

Henry arches his eyebrows in surprise. “But your mom’s dead.”

“Yes,” she says thinly, using a little more force as she rolls out the dough. “And the Netherworld is still a place between the living and the dead, Henry.”

He huffs out a disbelieving breath and leans forward on his arms again in an attempt to get her to look at him. “So you’re seeing dead people?” he asks, hardly believing that the words are coming out of his mouth. “Like _The Sixth Sense_?” She pauses in her rolling and flicks her eyes up at him, clearly confused. “It’s this -- nevermind,” he sighs, not wanting to get sidetracked.

Mom wrinkles her nose but turns her attention back to the dough and resumes rolling. “I see the living, too, Henry,” she reminds him. “Some of them were victims of the sleeping curse, like you and me. Some of them aren’t. And… I can’t be sure whether any of them -- living or dead -- are real.”

Henry props his head up with his hand, more confused than ever. The Netherworld is a place between the living and the dead; he _knows_ this, remembers Grandpa Gold telling him as much. And he also knows that souls can communicate in the Netherworld; he’d done it with Aurora in the Red Room a year and a half ago. But the way Mom’s talking about this -- about seeing people in the Hall of Mirrors -- makes it sound like it’s different. If she’d just been communicating with other victims of the curse, he thinks she would’ve just said so, and she wouldn’t be nearly so freaked out about it. But she’s not. She’s seeing both the living and the dead, and the fact that she’s questioning her reality makes Henry wonder what she’s still not telling him. “What happens?” he asks, needing more pieces of the puzzle. “When you see the people in the Hall of Mirrors, what happens? What do they say? What do they do?”

Another faltering pause, this one the longest yet, and he can see her agitation returning as she reaches for the flour again. She uses too much this time, white dust covering her apron and hands, but Henry chooses not to comment. She’s taking heavy, measured breaths as she resumes rolling out the dough, muscles in her arms strained and flexing as she works. “They try to make me doubt myself,” she says, and suddenly her attachment to the book earlier makes a lot more sense to him. She rolls the pin across the dough with more force each time, and the island vibrates a little under Henry’s hand. “They remind me of who I used to be, of what I’ve done. They doubt my ability to change, they taunt me about my magic, about my ability to be a good mother, about --”

“Mom,” he interjects softly, resting his hand gently on top of one of hers. She stops her movement abruptly, inhaling shakily before looking over at him. “You had your scary face on,” he teases. “And if you roll out the dough anymore, the cookies are going to be flat.” She glances down at the dough in confusion, but then her hands are tightening their grip on the handles of the rolling pin before dropping it with an echoing clatter. She shrinks away from his touch and backs away from the island until her back hits the counter. She grips the edge of the counter tight and exhales sharply before looking up at the ceiling. He can’t see her eyes, not like this, but he can tell but the wobble of her chin and the way she’s breathing that she’s trying really hard not to cry.

Mom is scared.

Henry just wants her to be happy.

He doesn’t think twice before he hops off of the barstool and makes his way over to her, wrapping his arms around her tight. He can hear her sharp inhale of surprise but doesn’t pull away, just rests his cheek against her shoulder and closes his eyes. “It’s not real, you know,” he murmurs. “The people you see in the Hall of Mirrors -- they’re not real.”

“How could you possibly know that?” she asks thickly.

“Because you said they doubted your ability to be a good mother,” he mumbles into her shoulder. He hesitates for a minute before pulling back just far enough to look at her properly. She moves her head to meet his eyes in kind, but there is doubt in her eyes, and her hands still grip the counter tightly. “That’s how I know they’re not real -- they’re full of shit,” he explains. This time, she doesn’t even bother chastising him for his language, and that’s when Henry knows that this is _bad_. He anchors one hand on her shoulder and offers her a small smile. “You could be a good mom in your _sleep_.”

Mom’s eyes narrow at that, and it takes Henry a moment to realize the double meaning in what he’s just said. But he doesn’t have to defend himself, doesn’t have to awkwardly try to explain what he meant because her lips twist into a reluctant smile, and that’s how he knows she understands. A laugh bubbles out of Mom first, and pretty soon they’re _both_ laughing, the sound echoing around the kitchen and filling Henry with warmth. She shakes her head in clear amusement before finally releasing her grip on the counter. She wraps her arms around him in kind and pulls him flush against her, and it’s a testament to how much they both want to get through this that neither of them says anything about the mess the flour is leaving behind. “I love you,” she laughs wetly.

“I love you, too,” he murmurs against her neck, hugging her a little tighter. He takes a moment to just… be sure of her. He focuses on the warmth of her against him, on the way the sound of her laughter still rings in his ears, on the way she clings to love in the middle of change. He still has so many questions about what’s been happening to her in the Hall of Mirrors, is _burning_ with curiosity, but as he pulls back and gets a good look at her face again, he’s again struck by how _tired_ she looks. She’s finally given into crying, too, and Henry thinks that maybe he’s pushed her far enough -- at least where the details are concerned. She wasn’t too specific about exactly what her experiences in the Hall of Mirrors are like, but Henry thinks that the details she gave him were too much for her -- at least right now. He’d seen how her expression had shifted and changed, had watched fear turn into anger in her eyes and force its way out of her hands. It was almost like he’d lost her for a minute, like she’d relived parts of it enough to forget herself.

Henry doesn’t want to lose her ever again, and he will walk through fire to find her if he has to.

They’re not done talking -- not by a long shot -- but Henry thinks that maybe he can cut her some slack. He wants to help her and he thinks she’s finally willing to let him do that, but he also knows that this hasn’t been easy for her. He can tell how exhausted and overwhelmed she is, and he’d noticed the way her breathing had changed when she’d gotten too lost in the memories. Laughter has given them both a reprieve -- has given them hope -- and Henry thinks they need to hold onto that a little longer.

So it’s with a smile that he pulls away and heads back to the island to start sorting through the cookie cutters. It only takes a minute at most for her to join him again, sniffing a little to regain her composure. Henry digs through the pile for a few more seconds before he finds the cutter he’s looking for, and Mom smiles when he hands it over to her. “You know,” he muses, turning his attention back to the pile of cookie cutters to look for one of his own, “I get why you don’t sleep like you used to anymore. From the sound of it, what’s been going on in the Hall of Mirrors sounds like something out of a psychological thriller.” He finally spots the cutter he’s looking for and picks it out of the pile, turning toward her with a triumphant smile. His smile falters a little, though, when he sees the look of skepticism on her face. “What?”

“Exactly how many horror films did Emma let you watch when you were living in New York?” she asks dryly, arching an eyebrow.

Henry grins a little sheepishly at her. “Define… _let_.” A laugh bursts out of her unexpectedly at his response, and he can’t help grinning a little wider. “What?” he argues, unable to help laughing himself. “She was a bail bondsperson. She worked weird hours. Homework and video games could only keep me occupied for so long, Mom. I had friends in New York, but at some point I either had to read a book or find something else to do. Netflix is dangerous. Awesome, but dangerous.”

Mom heaves a sigh and turns her attention back to the cookie dough, but she’s still smiling. “You really are your parents’ son, you know that?”

Henry bumps his hip against hers and smiles warmly at her. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I am.”

She looks like she wants to cry again -- he can tell by the way her chin wobbles -- but he knows it comes from love instead of fear or anger this time. But she inhales sharply and focuses her attention back on carving hearts out of cookie dough. “You know, the pregnancy hormones are really not helping the whole crying thing,” she huffs, sounding exasperated.

Henry avoids commenting on it and shifts his attention to carving pumpkins into the cookie dough. “You said everything was connected, earlier,” he reminds her, figuring this as good of an opening as he’s going to get. “The baby, your magic, the Netherworld -- you said they all fit together somehow. The whole being a mom thing -- is that what you meant?”

“Sort of,” she sighs, leaving one last impression of a heart into the dough before setting the cutter aside. She starts to transfer the cookies onto the baking sheet he’d set out earlier, her fingers gentle and careful as she works. “You know I’ve been having issues with magic lately.”

“Yeah,” he says, helping her move the rest of the cookies onto the baking sheet. “You talked to someone about that though, didn’t you?”

“I did,” she affirms, reaching for the towel to wipe her hands off a little. “It was… a little helpful, but it wasn’t until today that I realized what’s really been going on.” The oven beeps behind them before she has a chance to explain, so he loses her attention for a couple of minutes while she puts the cookies in the oven and sets a timer. He moves the rest of the dishes into the sink and starts to put the rest of the ingredients away while she works, knowing she’ll feel better if the kitchen gets cleaned right away.

By the time he grabs the carton of eggs from the island, Mom’s already working on cleaning off all of the dust and dough from the counter. “So what is really going on with your magic?” he asks, still determined to keep her on track. It won’t be too much longer before she doesn’t have anything to keep her hands busy, and while Henry doesn’t want to push her too hard, he doesn’t want to just drop it either.

“My magic,” she says, reaching for a few paper towels to wipe the counter dry, “is still mending after what happened with Gold. I’m still not able to use it.”

Henry closes the refrigerator door and leans against it, arms folded over his chest as he watches Mom cross the kitchen to throw the paper towels away and wash her hands in the sink. He takes a minute to think about it, to try putting some of the pieces together. She’s been having issues with her magic, but her magic isn’t working right now, which means -- “No way,” he breathes, pushing away from the refrigerator. She dries her hands off with a clean towel and turns to look at him, eyebrows arched expectantly. “The baby has magic?”

The corner of her mouth quirks up in a half-smile as she leans against the counter. “I hope that doesn’t make you jealous.”

Henry matches her half-smile with his own and shakes his head, moving to stand next to her and lean against the counter near the sink. “Not really,” he says, and it’s mostly the truth. “I’m learning to make the most out of my own gifts.” Her smile blossoms into full force at that, and she’s gentle as she bumps her forehead against his. “I still don’t totally understand though,” he admits, brow knitting as she pulls back to look at him properly. “What does the baby’s magic have to do with what’s been going on in the Hall of Mirrors?”

Mom’s smile falters and saddens a little, and it doesn’t escape his notice that she has to take a measured breath before she answers him. “Magic -- the magic I’ve been having issues with is very different when I’m awake than it is when I’m asleep.”

“When you’re asleep?” Henry echoes, still a little confused. “But -- _oh_.” He can’t help the breath that escapes him as the realization dawns on him, and the answering recognition in Mom’s eyes tells him that he’s finally put all of the pieces together. “The baby,” he breathes. “The baby’s magic works in the Netherworld. The baby’s soul has been going with you. You’re… _not_ alone in there.”

She works her jaw a little and shakes her head. “No,” she says, voice breaking a little. “No, I’m not.” She meets his eyes a few seconds longer before looking down and exhaling slowly, fingers brushing against her belly again. “But that -- that’s not something I can control,” she admits. “I’m worried about the baby, but I’m also worried about the things I can control. I’ve been worried about keeping you from returning to the Netherworld. I’ve been worried about Robin --”

“Robin?” Henry says. “Robin hasn’t been under a sleeping curse.”

“I know,” she replies, still not looking at him, “but I’m still not sure whether or not my visits to the Netherworld have been affecting his soul.”

“Soulmates, right,” Henry says faintly. He takes a moment to really look at her, watches the way her fingers move over her stomach, and something in him just… deflates. He can’t find it in him to be angry with her about keeping secrets to herself for so long, not when he sees how heavily they’ve been weighing on her. “Look,” he sighs, reaching for her hand and ignoring the new dusting of flour on her fingers. “I understand why you haven’t said anything before now. I get that you’ve been trying to protect us. I just -- I don’t understand why you decided to tell me all of this _now_. I know I asked, I know I pushed you into talking, but --”

“You didn’t,” she interjects, looking up at him. There’s warmth in her eyes again but she still looks so _tired_ , and Henry wonders how long it will be before she’s able to sleep normally again. “I’ve been trying to keep you out of this for your own good, Henry, but I don’t -- I don’t want to shut you out,” she says, squeezing his hand a little more firmly. “I just -- it’s hard to explain something you don’t really understand. People have pieces of all of this, but no one -- no one has the full story, not like I’ve explained it to you. I’ve only _just_ been able to make enough sense out of it to do that, and there’s still so much I don’t understand. Robin knows the most, after you, but there’s still so much we have to talk about.”

Henry relaxes a little and takes comfort in the fact that she’s finally started opening up to Robin, too. She had to have done that before she came home today, at least, which makes Henry feel less like he forced her into this. But he still needs the reassurance that it was her choice, so again he asks, “Why _now_? Why today?”

Mom exhales sharply through her nose, only meeting his eyes for a second before she releases his hand and starts to undo the tie of her apron. She sets it on the counter before she moves back to the island. She settles onto the barstool again, body facing the oven, and for the first time all day, Henry thinks that maybe she really _needs_ space for a minute. She’s quiet for a long few moments before she answers him. “Things are getting worse,” she admits, her voice sounding like it’s giving out. “In the Hall of Mirrors, things are getting worse, and I’m not -- I’m not sure how much longer I can last in there,” she says, and Henry’s love gives way to ache.

Mom is afraid of losing herself, and it’s Henry’s job to find her.

But he doesn’t move toward her, not yet. She’s not done talking, he can tell, and he’d rather get as many answers out of her as he can before he tries to find direction. “I still don’t know why I’m in there,” she continues, “but I’ve tried getting out. God, I have _tried_. Nothing I’ve done has worked. I can’t -- I need to get out and I can’t. I’m --”

“-- trapped,” Henry supplies. “You’re -- you’re stuck in there. You can’t get out. You’re _trapped_.” All it takes is one look from her to confirm his suspicions, and all of Henry’s ache feels like weight in his lungs. He moves across the kitchen to stand in front of her at the island, desperate for direction, but he doesn’t turn toward her, not yet. He rests his elbows on the island counter and rubs his face with his hands in aggravated frustration. “ _Jeez_ , Mom,” he huffs, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes.

She’s quiet for a long moment. “Are you… angry with me?”

He drops his hands from his face and sighs at the ceiling, trying not to get too worked up. “No,” he assures her. “I’m… frustrated. I’m frustrated because it feels like you’re running out of time to fix this. I’m frustrated because you’ve shared more of this with me than anyone else and I _still_ don’t know how to help you. That’s all I’ve wanted to do the whole time, was to just… _find a way_ to help you, and even after all of this, I can’t even manage to do that. And I -- I keep thinking that maybe if I _knew_ more, it would make a difference,” he explains emphatically, looking over at her even though he’s not totally in control of his emotions right now. “If you told me exactly what happened to you in the Hall of Mirrors, then maybe I’d be able to help you. I know, I know, you won’t give me any of the details,” he says, holding up a hand to prevent her protesting. “You’re my _mom_. I know you’ll only tell me what you feel like I need to know, and I am… learning to live with that. But that -- that doesn’t change the fact that I… don’t know what to do for you,” he admits softly, shoulders sagging a little.

Mom smiles a little brokenly, eyes watering like she wants to cry again. She reaches for his arm and tugs at it a little to get him to turn toward her so she can pull him into a warm hug. It’s a little awkward with her sitting on the barstool, but Henry takes comfort in her arms and buries his face against her shoulder. “Oh, Henry,” she breathes, hands rubbing soothingly along his back. “I’m not expecting you to find a solution to my problems. That’s not why I told you all of this.”

“Then why did you?” he mumbles into her shoulder.

“Because I _trust you_ ,” she whispers into his ear. “I trust you enough to tell you the truth. And you -- you have experience with the Netherworld that Robin doesn’t, Henry. I thought telling you might help give me a little… perspective. God knows I need it.”

“Perspective doesn’t get you out of there,” he mutters.

“Perspective gives me a clearer picture,” she argues, pulling away a little to force him to look at her. “If you see something differently, if you see something I don’t, that can change things, Henry -- maybe for the better.”

Henry shakes his head, tears stinging at his eyes. “How am I supposed to give you that?” he asks incredulously. “No one has been through what you’re going through. My experience isn’t any different than the other victims of the curse, Mom. We all went to the Hall of Mirrors when we were under the sleeping curse. None of us went back after we woke up. We all went to the Red Room after that. We all --”

Henry’s breath catches as the realization dawns on him, and hope replaces ache in his lungs.

“What?” Mom prompts, hand rubbing comfortingly along the length of his arm.

“ _Grandpa_ ,” Henry says. At the confused look on her face, he clarifies, “Grandpa David. He’s not like the rest of us. You -- you helped put him under a sleeping curse. And he went to the Hall of Mirrors first, just like the rest of us, but _he didn’t stay there_. He had to figure out how to get to the Red Room in order to talk to Mary Margaret. _Mom_ ,” he laughs, so relieved that he actually could almost cry now. “Mom, forget perspective -- _he got out_. If you want to get out of the Hall of Mirrors, if you want to put an end to all of this, you should talk to David. He’s the only one out of all of us who might actually be able to help you with this.” He watches as her eyes narrow in concentrated contemplation, can practically hear the wheels whirring in her head right now. She’s putting the pieces together, just like he did, but it’s not until he sees a hint of discomfort on her face that he realizes it’s not going to be that easy. “Look, I know you might not be all that comfortable with sharing this with him, but --”

“No,” Mom says, cutting him off. “No, that’s not -- David and I may not be the best of friends, Henry, but we’re family. I trust him. This... actually isn't a bad idea," she admits slowly.

Henry blinks at her disbelievingly. It can’t be that easy. “Wait, really?”

“Really,” she assures him, expression clearing a little. “When I’ve spoken to people about this, I haven’t been asking them how to get out. I’ve been focusing on finding ways to cope with it and on finding ways to control my magic again, but that’s… not what I need to do anymore. I need to get out, and you’re right -- David might be able to help with that.”

Slowly, Henry smiles, hopeful at the possibility of things changing again -- this time for the better. “I’ll go get the phone,” he offers, moving to pull out of her grasp.

“Wait, Henry, no,” she huffs, pulling him back toward her. “That’s not -- I’m not going to speak to him today.” Henry’s smile fades as he draws in a breath, indignant and ready to argue, but she doesn’t give him the chance. “I’ll talk to David, I _promise_ you that, but I’m not -- I’m not ready to do it today,” she admits with a sigh. “It’s been… a _day_ , and if I’m going to go to the trouble of asking David for help, Henry, I’d rather give him as much information to work with as I possibly can. I don’t want to have to have this conversation with him more than once, honestly. If I take a little time to make sure I remember everything and can make sense of it before I explain it to him, then hopefully I’ll only have to do it once.”

Henry exhales slowly and studies her carefully, still not entirely convinced. It still feels like she’s stalling, like she’s trying to find a way out of dealing with this the way she needs to. And he _hates_ that he feels like this, hates that his instincts won’t let him take her words at face value. He trusts his mom, he really does, but he also knows that sometimes her love means putting herself last. And for once, Henry wants her to be a little bit selfish here. He wants her to put herself first. “ _Promise_ ,” he whispers, gripping her arms in turn. “Promise me you’ll do it soon.”

Mom’s face sort of crumples and breaks open at his request, but he thinks he sees gratitude behind the renewed tears in her eyes. She moves one of her hands to grip his chin gently and offers him a small smile. “I don’t want to drag this out any longer than I already have,” she insists. His skepticism must still show on his face, though, because she cups his face with her hands and leans in a little closer, eyes locked with his. “I _promise_ you, Henry, I will talk to David _soon_. I just need a little more time.”

Henry can only hope she doesn’t run out.

The timer makes a loud, irritating noise behind them, alerting them that the cookies have finished baking. It also means that their discussion is at an end, and predictably, Mom presses a quick kiss to his forehead before releasing him and sliding off of the barstool to retrieve the cookies from the oven. But in spite of Mom’s promises -- in spite of how close he feels to her right now -- Henry finds himself a little annoyed. He doesn’t want to let the subject drop, doesn’t want their next conversation about this to be like it was today, doesn’t want his efforts to get her to open up to him to feel like pulling teeth. He wants things to stay as open and honest between them as they are now, and Henry can only hope that this is one of the changes that stays the same.

The sound of the front door shutting echoes its way into the kitchen, and by the time Henry turns toward the entrance to the kitchen, Roland is already rushing through it, backpack in his hands. “Regina!” Roland greets, spotting her first and struggling to catch his breath. “I got -- are those _cookies_?”

Henry glances over at Mom with a grin as she shifts the rest of the cookies onto the cooling rack. “Yes, they are,” she confirms, clearly trying not to laugh, “but they’re for after dinner, okay?” She sets the spatula and potholder down on the counter and turns to face Roland, lowering herself down to his level until she’s just shy of kneeling on the ground. “How was the library today? Did you have fun with Belle?”

“Uh-huh,” Roland says, practically beaming at her as he tries to hold up his backpack for her to see. “And she gave me _two_ extra books today!”

“ _Two_?” Mom gasps, brushing her fingertips across the back of his hand. “Well, we’ll have to read those at bedtime tonight, won’t we?”

Something inside of Henry aches with familiar affection as he watches them. This -- this is the person he remembers growing up with. This version of his mom is the one who had strict rules and sweet indulgences. It’s the version of her that had listened to his animated stories about space aliens with rapt attention. It’s the version of her whose touch had been gentle as she’d brushed his hair out of his eyes and remarked that he needed a haircut, and it’s the version of her who stayed up with him in the middle of the night when he’d had a bad dream. This is the version of his mom who took him on day trips to the beach and baked cookies with him and read him bedtime stories, and she will always love in the same ways.

This is his _mom_ , and as he watches her interact with Roland, Henry thinks about the baby growing inside of her and realizes that maybe he doesn’t have to worry so much about losing her.

Their family is expanding, and Mom’s love will just grow with it.

Henry can hear another door closing in the foyer, and it’s only then that he realizes that Robin has obviously come home, too. And while Henry has had the last hour to talk to Mom about all of this, he remembers her telling him that she still had a lot of things to discuss with Robin. He’s not sure if they’ll do much talking now -- dinner is in a couple of hours -- but Henry thinks that maybe they need the opportunity to be alone for a little while anyway. So he moves around the island and smiles down at Roland, waiting for a lull in the conversation before he interrupts. “Hey, Roland,” he greets. “Why don’t you head upstairs to your room and pick out one of your new books? I’ll be up in a minute and we can read one of them.”

“Okay!” Roland agrees, looking pleased at the offer. “Thank you, Henry!”

Henry huffs out a laugh at the way Roland nearly trips over his own feet as he hauls his backpack with him out of the kitchen. Mom doesn’t laugh, but Henry can tell she wants to. She shakes her head as she straightens up again, clearly amused, but the smile she turns onto him is full of fondness. “Thank you,” she says warmly, taking a step toward him. “You know how much he loves his books, and he really _adores_ you.”

“I don’t know,” Henry sighs dramatically. “I think he probably adores you more.” Mom colors a little but she laughs all the same, shaking her head and dropping a kiss to his cheek. She moves back toward the sink to actually wash the dishes they’ve left in there, and Henry hesitates for a moment before venturing, “Are things… okay between you and Robin?”

Mom glances over her shoulder at him, clearly caught off guard, but she gestures for him to join her at the sink. “Why do you ask?”

Henry leans against the counter just outside of the splash zone. “I don’t know, I just -- you said before that you still have a lot to talk about. And you told him about the baby earlier today, but you were home alone when I got off the bus, so I guess I just… wasn’t sure.”

Mom waits a moment before rinsing off her hands and drying them off on a towel. Her smile is gentle when she turns to face him. “We’re okay,” she assures him, reaching for his hand to squeeze it briefly. “There’s -- we _do_ have a lot to talk about, but we’re okay, Henry. You don’t have to worry about that.” Henry feels his instincts settle, at that. He knows how difficult things had been for them for a little while, back in the spring, remembers Mom doing her best to keep him out of it. He thinks they’ve come a long way from that, at least. Robin is much more of a permanent fixture in their lives, now, and among the many things Henry knows about his mom, he knows that she won’t lie to him about family. “And Henry?” she says, recapturing his attention. He _hmm_ s in acknowledgement just before she pulls him in for one last hug. “ _Thank you_ ,” she breathes. “I know you may not feel like your perspective does much to help me, but I promise you that it does. Thank you,” she says again, emphatic and quiet, “for _being here_. You really have no idea how much that means to me."

For the first time in _weeks_ , Henry feels useful.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he mumbles into her shoulder, knowing that sometimes she still needs to hear it out loud.

“I know,” she says, pulling back and tapping his nose affectionately. “But right now, there is a five-year-old upstairs waiting for you, so I think you should get going. Hang my cardigan up in the closet before you head upstairs?” she requests, nodding at where she’s left it on the island.

“Sure,” he agrees. He leaves her to the rest of the dishes, knowing it’ll help her stay calm, and he grabs her cardigan off of the island counter before he makes his way out of the kitchen and through the dining room to head out into the foyer.

Henry pauses once he crosses the threshold into the foyer, watching as Robin picks up Henry’s backpack from the floor. Henry’s coat and scarf and shoes are absent, which means that Robin’s probably put them away for him in an effort to save him from Mom’s annoyance. “Thanks,” Henry sighs, crossing the foyer to meet Robin halfway.

Robin smiles at him as he exchanges the backpack for the cardigan, eyes flicking to the staircase for a second before landing back on Henry. “Roland said you offered to read with him,” he says, moving back toward the front closet to hang the cardigan up.

Henry returns the smile easily. “I did.”

Something sparks in Robin’s eyes, and he sounds almost amused when he says, “He also informed me that there were freshly baked cookies in the kitchen.”

Henry barks out a laugh as Robin closes the closet door. “There are.” He hesitates for a moment as Robin approaches him again, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder in the general direction of the kitchen where he’s just left Mom. Henry’s got the upper hand right now; he knows more than Robin does, knows what kind of mood Mom is in right now. He thinks he can use it to his advantage -- to all of their advantage, really. He’ll let Mom be the one to tell Robin the specifics -- they’re still her secrets to share, after all -- but Henry thinks that keeping them all on the same page might be the most beneficial thing for Mom right now.

If they do this together, they can get through this as a family.

Henry hoists his backpack onto his shoulder and takes a measured breath, trying to relax his shoulders. “Listen,” he begins, trying his best not to sound too awkward, “Mom… told me.”

Robin raises his brow expectantly. “About?”

“About, well, everything, really,” Henry explains, rubbing at the back of his neck. “About the Netherworld, about the magic, about -- about the baby.”

Robin inhales sharply, clearly caught off guard. “I didn’t realize she was planning on having those conversations with you today.”

“I don’t think she was,” Henry admits. “It just sort of… happened.”

Robin nods in understanding but he looks down and away for a moment, biting his lip in clear apprehension. He’s nervous and uncomfortable, that much is obvious to Henry, but there’s still something oddly relaxed about Robin’s features when he looks back up. “Is she… alright?”

Henry softens into a smile. This -- _this_ is one of the things Henry likes most about Robin. Robin doesn't lie but he isn't perfect. He owns up to his mistakes, and Henry thinks that helps Robin see Mom for who she really is. And Henry -- he likes the way Robin stays in Mom’s corner even when no one else will, likes the way Robin will go to great lengths to protect her even if she can protect herself just fine. Henry likes the way Robin _loves_ her, and the fact that he’s asking about her well-being right now makes Henry believe in him more than ever. “I think she will be,” he says. Robin nods again, but he still looks nervous and uncomfortable, and Henry remembers, then, what Mom had said about Robin’s reaction to the news about the baby. “Are _you_?” Henry ventures tentatively. “Mom said you were a little… anxious, earlier, about the baby.”

Robin takes a measured breath in a clear attempt to keep himself calm and collected, but he manages to muster up a small smile. “I’m not unhappy,” he insists. “I’m -- I _am_ a little anxious about it, but I’m not unhappy.”

Robin looks down and away again, like he’s trying very hard to hold something back. Henry studies him carefully, confused. He thinks there’s more to this than just the issues Mom’s been having with the magic and the Netherworld. Mom had confessed to be anxious about the baby, too, but she’d kept her reasons to herself. Part of Henry wonders if she’s just anxious because she hasn’t done it like this before, but even if that’s the case, her reasons for being anxious would be different from Robin’s. He’s done this before, with Marian, and --

 _Oh_.

Slowly, Henry glances over to where his storybook is resting atop the coffee table in the living room.

Well, _that_ makes sense, at least.

Henry exhales quietly and turns his attention back to Robin, gripping the strap of his backpack tightly. “You’re afraid of losing her, too.” Robin blinks up at him in surprise, but there’s still something guarded about his expression. “You’re worried about my mom because of what happened with Marian,” Henry says. “Because she got sick.”

Robin’s gaze turns intense for a long moment before his shoulders sag, all of the air leaving him at once. “How did you know that?” he asks, and god, he sounds just as exhausted as Mom’s been lately.

Henry nods in the general direction of the living room. “It’s in the book.”

Robin glances over at it briefly before slowly looking back at Henry, concern evident in his eyes. “Your mother read that thing cover to cover this spring,” he says.

“Yeah,” Henry agrees, “she did. She also skipped over some of your stories while you were broken up. I think it just… hurt too much, back then.”

Robin’s expression clears a little. “So you don’t think she knows that story, then?”

“I don’t think so,” Henry says, “but I think it’s one you need to to tell her anyway.”

“I know. It’s just -- it has been… a _day_ ,” Robin sighs, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Telling your mother that story is really only one of the many things we need to talk about, Henry.”

Henry takes a moment to study him, notices the dark circles under his eyes and the way his shoulders sag. Robin is _tired_ but he’s _here_ , and Henry remembers with striking clarity the promise he’d made Robin give this summer. This -- this is all Henry’s asked of him since Mom took the sleeping curse. All Henry’s wanted from Robin is for him to stay, to not leave again, to _be here_ for Mom. Henry had believed in him back then, and while Robin might seem a little worse for the wear, he’s kept that promise for months.

Maybe it’s Henry’s turn to return the favor.

He doesn’t hesitate as he closes the distance between them and wraps his arms around Robin’s middle. It’s a lot different than hugging Mom -- Robin is still taller than him -- but in some ways, Henry finds that it’s much the same. He gets the same sharp inhale of surprise from Robin that he did from Mom earlier, and Robin’s arms don’t immediately move to hug in return. “It’s going to be okay, you know,” he murmurs into Robin’s chest.

He can feel Robin’s arms hovering awkwardly in the air for a minute before one of his hands comes to rest on Henry’s shoulder. “How can you possibly know that?” Robin asks, voice shaking a little.

“Because the minute I stop believing things will be okay is the minute I know they won’t,” Henry says, pulling back enough to look up and meet Robin’s eyes.

Robin’s answering smile is a little watery, but he’s nowhere near as close to tears as Mom’s been all afternoon. “You really do believe that, don’t you?” Robin laughs thickly.

Henry grins a little cheekily at him. “It’s what I do,” he says, causing Robin to laugh again. “And I know that somewhere in you, you’ve always believed it, too. You just needed someone to remind you.”

“Yes,” Robin agrees faintly. “Yes, I think I did. _Thank you_ , Henry,” he says, finally returning the hug in kind. And in the quiet that lingers, Henry smiles.

It may not be official -- not yet, anyway -- but Robin is definitely family to him.

Robin’s looking beyond him when they pull apart this time, and Henry knows even before he glances over his shoulder that Mom is watching them. “How long have you been standing there?” he asks.

She doesn’t move from where she’s leaning against the entryway between the dining room and the foyer, but her lips twist into a half-smile. “Long enough to wonder why you’re not upstairs reading with Roland.”

Henry rolls his eyes in exasperation but holds his hands up in surrender. “Alright, I’m going, I’m going,” he sighs, offering her a half-smile of his own before adjusting his grip on his backpack and heading up the stairs.

He stops halfway up the stairs, though, glancing back down at where he’s left them in the foyer. He manages to catch the end of a kiss before they break apart, but it doesn’t bother him as much as it has before. He lingers long enough to watch Robin rest a hand over Mom’s stomach and murmur something softly before leaning in for another kiss. Henry climbs the rest of the stairs with a smile, and somewhere in him, he thinks that Mom had been right.

Henry has more family than he knows what to do with, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

* * * * *


	7. October 28, 2013

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: This chapter contains explicit and graphic depictions of a dead body.**

_Regina feels sick._

_She takes a moment or two to try and breathe through it, keeps her eyes closed and her mouth shut in an effort not to give into the urge to vomit. She's really not a fan of the way morning sickness wakes her up like this, of the way it makes her stomach churn and her hands shake. But it feels different this time; her stomach isn't turning over the way she's grown accustomed to in the last two weeks, and taking deep, measured breaths is only making things worse._

_It's only then that she notices the foul stench of something rotting. The magnitude of it catches her off-guard mid-breath and causes her to gag a little, stomach lurching a little more forcefully. Again, she tries to take a deep, measured breath through her nose to combat the urge to vomit, but the smell is so strong that it permeates her nostrils. She tries to hold her breath for a moment but her lungs burn with the ache of it, and when her mouth falls open with a harsh burst of air, the urge to vomit grows stronger. She can practically taste it on her tongue now, can scarcely breathe through it, her lungs burning and her stomach churning. Perturbed, Regina tries to take more shallow breaths instead and opens her eyes to soft, orange light._

_Fire._

_She knows she's in the Hall of Mirrors before she even sits up, but the confirmation still leaves her unsettled. She hasn't been here in a week, not since before she'd talked to Robin and Henry, and her return is a little... unexpected. She's been sleeping better since she'd opened up to them, has been able to take the time to pull herself together before she talks to David._

_Apparently, she's waited too long._

_The hall is in just as much disarray as it has been in the last couple of weeks, glass and ash swept into a pile. Snow had left her mark here, last time, had scratched the wood of the cradle and bled onto the floor. And the birds -- the bodies of birds form a circle of death around the remaining mirrors, their song silenced. It's that, Regina thinks -- the carcasses of the birds -- that must be the source of the smell, but before she has a chance to figure out how to get rid of them, her eyes fall to a large mass in the center of the hall._

_That definitely wasn't here last time._

_Regina sits up a little straighter, rapt with attention now. She has a brief flicker of weakness and wonders if maybe this is something she can just... ignore, but ignoring it isn't going to make it go away. Ignoring it won't make her any less afraid._

_Ignoring it won't get her out of here._

_Slowly, Regina pushes herself to her feet and glances around the room, eyes searching. It's habit by now, the paranoia, the feeling she can't shake that she's not alone in here. And her instincts are always correct, even if it takes a while for them to be proven right. But this -- this is the game the Hall of Mirrors plays. It forces her to let her guard down, and then it cuts her off at the knees._

_In a strange way, Regina almost misses Maleficent. At least with her, Regina had a fighting chance. But here?_

_Here is where her hope comes to die._

_But there is nothing -- no visions, no voices. Regina is alone in here with her child and her fear and the revolting smell of decaying corpses. So it's with a hand pressed delicately against her mouth and nose that Regina takes a step forward, breath still shallow and uneven. Another step, and then another, and it's only when she's a few steps away that she can see the mass more clearly in the firelight._

_The mass is hidden underneath a large cloak, and there, peeking out from under the edge, is a set of fingers._

_Regina goes cold._

_There's someone else in here with her._

_And this -- this is different than anything she's seen before. Her instincts pull her back to the same frame of mind she'd been in when she'd first seen the cradle. This -- this is real, this is a sign that someone else has been brought to the Hall of Mirrors, and that can only mean one thing._

_Someone is under a sleeping curse._

_Regina is on her hands and knees and crawling toward them without so much as a second thought, desperate to see if they're alright. The instinct to protect is there, but it's dampened, buried underneath her own selfish need. If she can talk to this person, if they're really here under a sleeping curse, then maybe Regina can get out._

_Maybe it will finally be her turn to move on._

_She barely notices the rotting smell getting stronger as she grows closer, ignores the way bile burns low in her throat as she reaches out a hand to push the cloak away, the skin of the fingers cool to her touch. Underneath, there is a body, still and silent, wrists marked up like her own had been after Mother had bound her. The chest of the body doesn’t rise and fall with breath the way it should and Regina’s eyes shift upward quickly, stomach sinking as she follows the trail of bloodstains past the heart and along the column of the throat --_

_The body has lost its head._

_The body is missing its head, has been decapitated somewhere along the neck, and even though there aren’t a pair of dead eyes for her to stare into, the carnage is still brutal enough to hold her attention. She can see the notch of vertebrae, the hollow opening of the throat, and blood has pooled onto the glass floor just above the neck, dark and red and thick. Her stomach churns at the sight of it, and Regina shrinks away from the body with a horrified gasp and quickly pushes herself to her feet. Not even the most shallow of breaths will quell her nausea now, and she struggles not to panic, mind racing. Someone brought the body in here, someone left it on display for her to find and Regina cannot fathom why. Snow had been in here last, bleeding and tainted and aggressive, but she didn’t have it in her to kill Regina, didn’t have the stomach to follow through on an execution, would never so much as utter the words ‘off with its head’ --_

_Mother._

_Mother did this. Mother took as many heads as she did hearts, and Regina can't help how badly she trembles as she glances around wildly from mirror to mirror, searching. Mother had been real, Mother had reached for her child, Mother wants to --_

_“Is this what you’re looking for?”_

_Regina’s stomach sinks at the sound of the voice, and slowly, she turns around to face its owner. She barely has time to notice the set line of his jaw or the darkness in his eyes before her attention is pulled to the object he’s holding._

_In Robin’s hand is a long, thin metal spike, and speared onto one end is the missing decapitated head arranged for display._

_Marian._

_Regina’s breath catches in her lungs as her stomach clenches unbearably at the sight. Marian’s skin is ghostly pale, her eyes cold and dead and unseeing, but Regina only has eyes for her neck. She can see the faint markings around what’s left of Marian’s neck, can see the carnage more clearly now. The cut doesn’t look as clean as it did on the body, skin and sinews severed and more serrated-looking than they should be. And there’s more blood there, red and vibrant and not nearly as dark as it should be. It’s left stains on the spike and Robin’s hand, and in the quiet of the hall, all Regina can hear is the steady drip-drip-drip of Marian’s blood falling to the floor._

_The word ‘no’ never makes it out of Regina’s mouth._

_Regina doesn’t think twice before sinking to her knees in front of the cradle and vomiting inside of it, her nails sinking into the marks Snow left behind. Her eyes are watering and the taste of bile is bitter on her tongue and she finds herself gasping for air, tremors wracking her body along her neck and spine and shoulders. Robin kneels down on the other side of the cradle with the spike still in his hand, but her vision is too blurry to make out the more grotesque parts of Marian’s features now. His fingertips brush against the back of her hand, startling her and forcing her to look up at him. He’s looking at her curiously, head tilted and eyes full of confusion, but they’re missing their usual warmth. “I don’t understand,” he says, an edge to his voice. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”_

_“No,” she chokes out, palms sweaty and struggling to grip the edge of the cradle. “No, I never --”_

_“You never wanted this?” he asks, disbelieving. “You never wanted her dead?”_

_Regina’s heart stops._

_Robin’s never used this against her before._

_“You did this,” he insists, voice shaking. He moves Marian’s head a little closer to her, but Regina recoils and pulls away a little, grimacing as the rotting smell grows stronger. “You did this, you had her slaughtered --”_

_“I didn’t!” Regina gasps, trying desperately not to look at the severed head. “Robin, Marian’s alive, she’s --”_

_“Don’t lie to me!” he shouts, practically spitting it at her. Regina snatches her hand away but finds herself unable to look away from him, transfixed by the rage in his eyes. “You did this! You did what you always do, Your Majesty. You fucking --” He cuts himself off abruptly and throws the head on the spike across the hall with impressive force. Regina ducks to avoid it, watches blood drip down and land on the wood of the cradle, and she jumps at the sound of the head and spike landing with a thunk and a clatter._

_This can’t be happening._

_“This isn’t real,” she breathes, pulling away from the cradle and turning to crawl away. “I’m asleep. You’re not really here, you’re not really him, you’re --” She gasps when Robin grabs her roughly and pulls her toward him, gripping her forearm tight. There’s blood on her skin, now, wet and sticky and warm, and she aches all the way down to her bones with how hard he’s squeezing her arm. “Let me go,” she rasps, and the queen scorches her way up Regina’s throat. “You’re hurting me, let me go.”_

_Robin grins, dark and seductive, but he doesn’t relinquish his hold on her. “If I’m not really here,” he drawls, “then why don’t you just push me off?”_

_There is hatred in Robin’s eyes, and still Regina cannot look away._

_“Let me go,” she insists, tugging a little to try and get him to loosen his grip. “Let me go, you’re not real, you can --”_

_“I am real!” Robin yells, pulling her a little closer. Regina flinches but doesn’t pull away, doesn’t fight him. She closes her eyes and tries to remember how to breathe, tries not to think of the punishments Mother had inflicted upon her as a child, tries not to think of the way Leopold’s hands had left bruises after he’d found her fake diary. Robin leans in a little closer, lips pressed right against her ear as he murmurs, “Let me show you just how real I am, Regina.” And without another word, Robin reaches for her other arm and pulls her hand into his chest._

_Her hand closes around his heart._

_This is not how a soulmate feels._

_Regina is the one left gasping in pain as Robin forces her to pull his heart out of his chest, her hand shaking as Robin’s fingers dance delicately against her skin. His heart is still beating, glowing bright and pulsing in her hand, but it’s battered, darkness swarming inside and feasting on light. “Look,” he demands, quiet but firm, and Regina couldn’t tear her eyes away even if she wanted to. “Your mother was right, Regina -- you do destroy everything you touch.” And it’s a lie, it has to be, Robin doesn’t know that, she never told him what Mother said but her skin is itching like crazy and she is dark, dark, dark. “This,” he says emphatically, gripping her hand firmly so he can push his heart closer to her, “this is the mark you’ve left, Regina. Look at what you’ve done to me.” Lies, they’re all lies, this isn’t real, Robin isn’t really here, she has worked too hard to keep him out of here. Robin wouldn’t do this, Robin isn’t like this, Robin is good and light and quicker to temper lately and longing for drink and she has driven him to desperation with this, has pushed him away with good intentions and darkened his light and oh god, he’s right, she’s done this to him. She’s only brought darkness into his life and she’d wanted, she’d wanted -- “Look at what you’ve done to Marian.”_

_She’d wanted Marian dead._

_The Hall of Mirrors harbors her soul, and this -- this is her selfishness of spring and summer come back to haunt her._

_This isn’t real._

_This can’t be real._

_Resolve weakening, Regina only just manages to tear her eyes away, but it’s enough to give her the strength to pull out of his grasp, enough to let go of his mutilated heart and let it fall, fall, fall. She stumbles a few steps back, chest feeling tight, but Robin manages to catch his heart before it hits the glass ground. It’s heavy in his hand, she can tell by the way he struggles to lift it, and his eyes are full of nothing but contempt as he straightens back up. “Try not to be so careless with it, would you?” he bites out, looking a bit pained as he haphazardly shoves his heart back into his chest. “I thought it meant something to you.”_

_All of the breath leaves Regina’s lungs at once._

_She hasn’t told Robin she loves him._

_Love is the only hope she has left, and she cannot sacrifice it to utter madness._

_“It does,” she argues, voice thick with the onslaught of tears and god, she is trying to reason with a hallucination, she’s losing her mind. “It does, but you’re not -- this isn’t real. You’re not real, you’re not him. I’m asleep, he’s -- he’s waiting for me out there, waiting for me to wake up. He won’t be like this, he won’t be like you, he’ll try to help me, he’ll --”_

_“Will I?” Robin asks, sounding skeptical. “Why on earth -- or any realm, for that matter -- would I help you?”_

_“Because you love me!” Regina screams, half-sobbing as she wraps her arms around her middle. But no, not him, never him, Robin does, Robin loves her, Robin isn’t here, Robin is asleep. She’s practically hyperventilating now, chest heaving as she gasps for air, and her eyes slip shut of their own accord, heavy with hysteria. Asleep, asleep, she’s asleep, she needs to wake up, she needs to get out of here, she needs to find an anchor, she needs Robin to --_

_Fingers brush against her face, tracing the tracks of her tears, and when Regina opens her eyes, she sees longing in Robin’s eyes. His brow is knit in concern as he studies her, his touch exceedingly gentle now, and it’s only then that Regina notices that his hands are clean._

_Something in her soul shifts._

_“Robin,” she breathes, unfurling her arms to clutch fitfully at his shirt. “You’re here, you --” She laughs wetly and rests her forehead against his chest, breath evening out as he anchors a hand on the back of her neck. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t -- I tried so hard to keep you out of here. I’ve been trying to --”_

_“Protect me,” Robin supplies quietly. “Yes, I know.”_

_Regina squeezes her eyes shut briefly before pulling back to look at him properly again. “You’re here now,” she says, and this is true. “I’m -- we’re asleep, but I have to get out of here and I can’t, Robin. I can’t wake up. I need -- I need you to wake me up,” she says, the realization dawning on her. Robin had woken her from the sleeping curse, had pulled her from eternal slumber, and it’s Robin who can wake her now, Robin who can pull her from this wretched place. “Please,” she begs, feeling his heart beat rhythmically under her palm. “Before this place turns you against me again, please, help me.”_

_Robin moves his hand to cradle her jaw, eyes weighted with ache, but before Regina can so much as blink, Robin’s hand is gripping her face roughly, causing her to whimper in pain. “Why would I help someone like you?” he grits out, clearly seething and she has lost him to darkness all over again. It’s her fault, it has to be her fault, he keeps falling into darkness because of her, her fault, her fault, her fault. “Why would I ever love someone like you?” he taunts, gripping her face a little harder, and there is so, so much hatred in his eyes that Regina wishes she could forget him like this. “How could I? How could I ever love someone like you? Someone who filled my heart with darkness, someone who took love away from me --”_

_“I didn’t,” she swears, hardly able to speak clearly with how hard he’s gripping her face. “Robin, I -- I gave it to you. I gave you --”_

_“What, your heart?” he says derisively, almost sneering at her. “Hasn’t that thing done more harm than good?”_

_“You love me,” she insists, ripping his hand away from her face. She reaches up to cup his face in her hands, tries to be gentle and fails. She’s reasoning with madness, but Robin is in there, somewhere, trapped underneath the twisted games the Hall of Mirrors plays. She just has to find him, has to get him out, has to wake up, wake up, wake up. “You love me,” she whispers fervently. “I might still be under that curse if you didn’t.”_

_Robin’s grin is dark and knowing, but he doesn’t make another move against her, doesn’t try to pull away. “Then tell me, Regina,” he prompts, voice low and full of dangerous delight, “why are you still in here?”_

_And Regina hears the words he doesn’t say loud and clear -- what if she never really woke up?_

_Regina relinquishes her hold on him quickly, suddenly freezing, her breath coming out in spirals between them. The mere thought of still being under the curse is like the sharp pain of a knife in her lungs, depriving her of hope. She is suffocating in her fear and Robin is not really here, she needs to get out, wake up. She cannot stomach another lie, not when it comes from truth, and she is left with only one option._

_Regina cannot breathe, and this time, she chooses to run._

_The whole room spins and tilts when she turns around, the glass of the mirrors warping under firelight. She squints a little to try and focus, vision still blurry with tears, but it only makes her dizzier. Her legs shake with imbalance as she stumbles across the hall and tries desperately to stay upright. She swerves to avoid the cradle but ends up tripping over the corpse, falling to the glass floor. She braces her hands against the floor to catch herself as best as she can, the impact reverberating painfully through her arms. Tears spill unprompted from her eyes, dripping between splayed fingers to stain the cracked glass floor with fire beneath it. She can feel the warmth spreading through her palms but cannot seem to find comfort in it, not when she knows this is merely a taste of what she can’t have._

_Everyone else has moved on, and Regina is still trapped where she doesn’t belong._

_Shaking, Regina pushes herself into a sitting position and wraps an arm around her middle, palm pressed protectively over her belly. “I’m sorry,” she whispers wetly, squeezing her eyes shut. “I’m so sorry. I -- I’m trying to keep you safe. I’m trying to get us out of here. I’m trying -- I’m trying so hard,” she breathes, chest feeling tight as fresh tears spill onto her cheeks. And she can feel it now, her child’s magic coiling in her core, a reaction to Regina’s pain and hysteria, but before she can even so much as think about trying to calm herself down, sparks shoot through the bones in her arm and out of her left palm. She snaps her eyes open and gasps in pain, skin stinging as the glass beneath her hand lights up along the crack in the floor._

_In the light, she can see David._

_It’s a brief glimmer in glass, blue eyes reflected back at her, but it’s enough to steal the breath from her lungs again. She’s never seen him in here before, has never seen anyone in the glass of the floor, and it’s only now that Regina remembers the epiphany that Henry had last week._

_Of the victims they know, David is the only one who has ever forcibly found his way out of the Hall of Mirrors and into the Red Room._

_What if --_

_The idea catches hold in her heart and lungs before it’s even fully formed in her mind, and it’s with hope bleeding out of her bones that Regina presses both palms against the glass floor and swallows hard around her ache. David’s reflection is gone, now, and not even here can she see herself, but she’s not interested in what the mirrors have to offer. What she wants is below, and through the slight crack in the floor, Regina swears she can hear the roar of fire. She leans closer to the floor, relishes in the heat and directs her whispers into the opening. “David,” she says, flexing her fingers against the floor. “David, I don’t -- I don’t know if you can hear me. I don’t even know if you’re in there, but if you can, if you are, then… please, help me.”_

_And much to Regina’s surprise, a voice does answer her, but it doesn’t belong to David._

_“You underestimate the price of what you’ve done!” the voice jeers, muted and muffled through the crack in the floor. Regina narrows her eyes in concentration as she tries to discern it, but when it speaks again, the words come out like a song, taunting her. “You shall see, you will come to me. There is more you need.” And in the dim firelight of the hall, Regina remembers with aching familiarity the last time she’d heard those words._

_Rumplestiltskin has returned, and this time, it’s Regina who’s in a cage._

_Regina pushes away from the floor quickly and shuffles away from the opening awkwardly, the memory of that encounter like a gaping hole in her heart. This time, she doesn’t have the feeling of victory in her veins to distract her from the void, and she remembers all too well how right he’d been back then. She’d needed more from him, had come to him in her hollow triumph in search of a child to love and to mother. She has that in spades, now, has freed herself from maniacal manipulations, but there’s a small part of her -- the part that yearns to be free of this wretched place -- that feels like she may be destined to repeat history after all._

_With every step toward the light, darkness follows her like a looming shadow._

_Lightning fast, there’s a body against her back and an arm looped tightly around her middle, the tip of something sharp pressed against the hollow of her throat. She barely manages to inhale sharply in surprise, instinct telling her not to move, not to struggle, not to fight against it. For one wild moment, she thinks of Mother, of belts and vines and years of restraint, but the body pressed against her is larger, more muscular, stubble scratching her skin as lips move to her ear. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a flash of gold, and all at once, Regina knows exactly what weapon is pressed precariously against her pulsepoint._

_An arrow._

_“I have waited… such a long time for this moment,” Robin murmurs, breath hot against her ear._

_Breathing shallow, Regina slowly brings up her hands to grip Robin’s forearm and fights against every instinct telling her to claw at his skin. She won’t hurt him, not her Robin, not when she knows he’s in there somewhere, buried under darkness. “You wouldn’t do this,” she rasps, throat twitching painfully under the tip of the arrow. “I know you, Robin. You would never willingly take the life of another.”_

_In the quiet, there is nothing but the senseless pounding of her heart beating in her chest and the ghost of her lover’s breath against her ear. “You,” Robin says, “have no idea what I’m capable of.”_

_Something in her soul breaks._

_With every last limb trembling, Regina slowly shifts her gaze to meet Robin’s eyes._

_She finds a stranger looking back at her._

_"There are no second chances in here, Regina," Robin says, pressing the tip of the arrow more firmly against her throat._

_Hope evaporates like smoke in her lungs, and in the hall, the firelight dies out._

* * * * *

Robin wakes up to darkness.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, for his sleep-addled mind to catch up to the fact that he’s woken in the middle of the night. He exhales slowly around a yawn as he rubs the sleep from his eyes, blinking blearily when faint vestiges of light start to illuminate the bedroom through the window. It’s soft and white, flickering in and out of view as the moon tries to peek out from behind the clouds, and it’s with heavy eyes that Robin glances over toward the opposite nightstand to see what time it is.

He’s distracted by the faint silhouette of Regina’s body lying next to him, slumbering peacefully. His nose wrinkles a little with his smile at the mere sight of her, blankets hugging her hips. Pregnancy is changing her: he can see it in the fullness of her breasts and the way her belly has started to swell and descend, in the muscles of her thighs and the softness of her skin. Moonlight casts shadows across her face and highlights her every curve, and even in his leadened lethargy, Robin cannot help but think she looks exquisite. He does his best not to wake her as he shifts closer and curls against her side, head finding the crook of her arm with ease. With a satisfied sigh, he closes his eyes, enjoying the steady _tick-tick-tick_ of the clock on her nightstand as he trails his fingertips across the hollow of her throat to rest his hand on her far shoulder -- 

Regina jolts awake with a too-loud gasp, bolting upright so quickly that she dislodges Robin from where he’d been curled against her. The force of her movement is so strong that it pushes him back and away across the bed, and he barely has the wherewithal to reach out a hand blindly to try and catch himself. The corner of his own nightstand digs painfully into his palm as he falls back, a sharp indicator that he’s only just narrowly missed bashing his head against it. He takes a moment to catch his breath, heart thudding painfully in his chest, before he pushes himself upright and away from the nightstand. “Regina,” he groans, muscles in his arm aching as he glances back over in her direction. “What --”

His voice falls quiet when his eyes finally find her. She’s not in bed anymore but on the floor, close to the far wall, hands held up in front of her. Concerned that she’s hurt herself in her fall, Robin shifts and moves across the bed to get closer to her. It’s not until he’s swinging his legs over the edge of her side of the bed, though, that he realizes she hasn’t fallen out of bed at all. She doesn’t look injured, and her knees are bent and tucked up against her -- as much as they can be with her slowly expanding belly, anyway. And her hands -- her hands aren’t reaching for him, he realizes. Her fingers are splayed wide, tendons tight, and all at once he knows exactly what forced them apart.

Magic.

He can’t help the way the age old instinct to loathe magic flares up, but he knows that it belongs to their child, knows Regina can’t control it. He also knows where it comes from -- from the instinct to protect -- and he can see it in her now. He can see it in the way her chest heaves with how hard she’s breathing, can see it in the way her eyes are unfocused and distant.

Regina still thinks she’s in the Netherworld, and once again, Robin feels as though they’ve been separated by glass.

But he knows that he can get through to her -- he _knows_ he can, knows she’s depending on him to do just that, so Robin tamps down his frustration with magic and rises to his feet. He takes a step toward her slowly, ducking his head a bit to try and make eye contact. He reaches out for one of her hands with his own, movements slow and deliberate, but it’s not until he’s a foot away that she seems to notice he’s there, and the violence with which she starts and shrinks away is more than enough to give him pause. “Don’t come any closer,” she says.

Her hands are shaking.

Robin can practically feel the magic vibrating off of her, the energy in the room suddenly shifting, and he remembers the first time their child’s magic had manifested. Regina hadn’t wanted to hurt him, back then, had been trying very hard to protect him, but the time for that is long gone. She’d been afraid, last week, when her magic had manifested in her office, but Robin remembers the warmth against his skin.

She can’t hurt him.

He shifts his gaze between her hands and eyes and back again, waiting for the tell-tale spark. “Hey,” he breathes gently, somewhere between lethargy and lucidity. “It’s alright. You’re awake. You’re not going to hurt me, remember? Let me show you,” he says encouragingly, reaching out a hand again. Regina just shrinks farther away from him, practically plastering herself against the wall, hands still raised, and amidst his exhaustion, something in Robin’s soul aches. “Regina --”

He gasps in surprise when his fingertips brush against a magical barrier, the room flooding with the sparking light he’s growing accustomed to seeing in the last few weeks. This time, it _does_ sting a bit, the sensation a little uncomfortably warm, but he does his best to conceal any pain, knowing it’ll just upset her and make things worse. She’s already trying to protect him, has projected an actual shield to keep him at bay, and --

She’s trying to keep them apart.

Slowly, Robin looks down into her eyes, and in her irises, he sees nothing but fear.

It’s like she doesn’t even recognize him.

She’s not trying to protect him; she’s trying to protect herself.

She’s… afraid of him.

Or rather, she’s afraid of whatever she thinks she’s seeing, whatever she’s been most recently haunted by in the Netherworld. She’s clearly disoriented, uncomfortable and paranoid, and for all that she’s looking right at him, it feels as though she’s looking _through_ him. He may be wide awake, now, but it’s clear that she isn’t, not entirely, anyway. He needs to help her wake up properly, needs to help her understand that she’s safe here. He needs to be able to touch her to help anchor her to reality, but he can’t do that with the barrier she’s erected between them.

Behind him, the bed is empty and cold, and the clock on the nightstand ticks on.

He feels _useless_.

 _No_.

Robin will not go back to that, will not let Shattered Sight creep in around the edges again, will not let himself falter when Regina needs him most.

He refuses to give up on her.

Slowly, Robin lowers himself to his knees in front of her but doesn’t try to move any closer. “Hey,” he prompts gently, knowing his words are all he has to get through to her right now. “It’s just me, alright? It’s just Robin.” Regina inhales sharply at that, eyes betraying her skepticism, and Robin narrows his own in confusion. He’s not sure if she recognizes him, if she thinks she’s hallucinating, or if maybe she sees someone else in his place. Whatever she sees, though, is enough to instill fear in her and put her on the defensive.

 _Sometimes they get a little aggressive_ , she’d said, and something in Robin goes cold.

She thinks he -- whatever she sees him as right now -- is going to harm her.

Wanting her to feel safe with him -- wanting her to _see him_ \-- Robin holds up both of his hands in surrender and leans back on his haunches. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he promises.

“Really?” she rasps, voice sounding skeptical and far darker than he’s heard it in a long time. She’s still breathing rather heavily, chest rising and falling in rapid movement, but her hands have stopped shaking. “Why not?” she asks, and she is _goading_ him, daring him to prove her wrong.

He almost doesn’t recognize her.

But Regina is _in there_ somewhere, trapped inside the twisted hallucinations of the Hall of Mirrors with a resilient heart and a soul still tethered to his own. He just has to _find her_ , to _wake her up_ , but without his kiss, she may very well stay buried, locked away with her own demons.

It feels like Shattered Sight all over again.

The minute he stops believing things will be okay is the minute he knows they won’t.

He cannot give up on her now.

Slowly, the ache in Robin’s lungs begins to fade, and all he is left with is hope. He lowers his hands and rests his palm flat on his thighs, not once breaking eye contact with her, and he does his best to keep his voice as sincere and gentle as he can. He will not fight darkness with darkness of his own. “Because you are my light,” he says quietly, “and I love you.”

Regina narrows her eyes, clearly still skeptical, but Robin doesn’t miss the way belief blooms in her irises first. His words have struck a chord, he can tell, but her hands remain where they are, the shield like a veil between them. “You do?” she asks, voice a little gentler than before.

Ache burns and scorches its way up Robin’s throat but he swallows it down, tears stinging at his eyes. She’s only given him pieces of her experiences in the Hall of Mirrors, but he never imagined that it would warp her heart like this, that love would be beyond recognition to her. He _wishes_ that he could touch her, that he could run his fingers through her hair and press his lips against her own, but love is measured in more than just sweet caresses and gentle touches. He has nothing but his unerring faith to go on, now, and he can only hope that his belief is enough to reignite her own. “You know I do.”

Something shifts in her expression, like she _wants_ to believe him but she can’t, and her voice drops down to a mere whisper. “Why? What do you see in me?” she asks, and it is not lost on Robin that this is not the first time she’s asked him that.

He knows what he has to do.

“Hopefully the same thing you see in me,” he says, holding out a hand in offering. “A second chance.”

The effect of his echoed words is immediate; he can see it in the recognition in her eyes, in the way tension melts out of her muscles, in the way her breathing starts to grow more even. She still won’t lower her hands or remove the shield, and there are still faint vestiges of skepticism in her expression, but they’re fading fast. “Robin?” she breathes, a request for reassurance.

“Yes,” he supplies, answer immediate. “It’s just me, darling.”

The moon casts light upon them both, and Regina finally, actually wakes up.

Any last traces of doubt or disbelief are gone now as she lowers her hands, the barrier between them sparking and fading out of existence. He’s loathe to be apart from her for any longer, but he forces himself to wait a moment more, noting the way her eyes dart around the room wildly to orient herself to her surroundings. He doesn’t want to startle her further, doesn’t want to give her any real reason to be afraid of him now that she’s actually awake. He waits until her eyes find his again before he inches closer to her, hand still held out in offering. He stops shy of being close enough to touch her, wanting to make sure that he is still what she wants, what she needs in a moment of need.

Regina reaches out a hand of her own, and Robin finds that he is -- then, now, always -- her choice.

He pulls her into his arms the second their skin makes contact, immediately cradling her head and pressing a kiss to her temple. She gasps a little in surprise, stiff and still in his arms for half of a moment before she finally relaxes into his embrace. “ _Robin_ ,” she says thickly, breath heavy and warm against the skin of his neck as her fingers clutch fitfully at his nightshirt. “You’re here.”

Robin narrows his eyes in confusion but doesn’t pull away, rubbing her back soothingly with his free hand. “Of course I’m here,” he says. “I’ve been here all night. Where else would I be?” But Regina doesn’t speak again, just shakes her head and tries to curl impossibly closer to him. The hand on her back slows to a stop, tentative and unsure for a moment. He’s a little… lost as to what to do for her right now, how to comfort her. He’s here -- he’s _been_ here. He doesn’t understand why she’d thought otherwise when _she’s_ the one who’s been leaving in her slumber, haunted by revenants that make her question her reality --

And with striking clarity, Robin remembers waking from his own nightmares earlier this month. They’d had nearly the exact same conversation that night in reverse, Robin seeking reassurance from Regina. He’d needed to be close to her, needed to feel her heartbeat under his palm, needed to be sure of her. This is different -- what’s been happening to Regina is very much real -- but in some ways, Robin thinks that maybe she needs the same things he’d needed back then. He can feel it in the way her breath still comes out a little shaky and uneven, in the way her fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt even more tightly.

All Robin can do is _be here_.

“Come here,” he murmurs, shifting so he can lean against the side of the bed. Regina goes with his pull easily, tucking herself under his arm and against his side, head nestled against his chest. Her hand reaches for him again but she hesitates just shy of grabbing hold of his shirt, fingers flexing anxiously for a moment before finally settling to rest gently over his heart. There’s something almost… reverent in her touch that Robin cannot help but match with his own, his fingertips brushing gently against the back of her hand.

In the quiet, his heart beats in time with the clock on the nightstand.

Slowly, he begins to feel Regina relax against him, her breathing not quite so irregular as he cards his fingers through her hair with his free hand. He doesn’t want to sleep until he knows she’s alright, until he can at least get a promise out of her that she’ll talk to him about what happened in the Netherworld come morning. But he can’t imagine she’ll be able to sleep soon; she never has upon returning from the Netherworld. It pains him in ways that surprise him a little, pieces of his soul pinging in sympathy. The nightmares he’d had were only memories, pieces of his fractured soul reminding what it was like to be -- 

_\-- falling, and his knees hit the ground, his mother’s hand cool to touch -- falling, and his father’s blood is on his hands -- falling, and death rattles Marian’s lungs -- falling, and Roland disappears in a cloud of smoke -- falling, and his knees hit the ground, Regina’s finger bleeding with the poison of a curse -- falling, falling, falling and Regina’s blood is on his hands and --_

Robin inhales sharply and tries to push the memory of the nightmare from his mind, focusing instead on the way he’d been able to find calm upon waking. It had been in Regina’s arms that he’d been able to find his way back to slumber, but he’s not expecting the same tonight. His mind won’t let him sleep now, anyway, not when it’s teeming with memories, and as Regina relaxes against him, Robin finds himself fighting for calm.

The moon disappears behind the clouds again, and in the dark, Robin feels Shattered Sight creep in around the edges.

 _No_.

He is _sick_ of the way that spell has festered inside of him like an untended wound. It’d been a stark reminder that darkness had taken root in his heart long ago, and even after the spell had been lifted, there have been moments when Robin has felt the keen sting of glass sharp against his eyes. He’d felt it more than once, during the summer: when guilt had settled onto his shoulder like an old friend at the prospect of losing his son; when he’d been Maleficent’s prisoner underground, sullen and useless to his lover. He’d felt it again mere weeks ago, too, had allowed it to cloud his better judgement and consume him until Regina’s magic -- their _child’s_ magic -- had carved a jagged line along the pier in protest.

Robin has had darkness in his heart for longer than he’d ever care to admit, but he has long since strived to live his life in the light. It’s why he finds himself so drawn to Regina, because for every spot of darkness that swarms within her heart, there is an equally prevailing patch of light.

Together, they are both.

The clock ticks steadily on, and the moon shines brightly through the windowpane again.

He’s not sure how long they sit there together on the floor, quiet and curled up, but he’s jarred into something resembling concentrated consciousness when Regina’s hand slips away from his chest and out of his grasp. Lethargy settling in again, Robin glances down and watches as Regina’s hand settles gently over the still fairly small swell of her belly. He can't quite see her expression, not at this angle, but her touch is still exceedingly reverent, careful. Concern twists low in his gut; he knows that their child’s soul has been traveling to the Netherworld along with her own. He’d deduced as much once he’d realized that she’d been able to make magic manifest in the Hall of Mirrors, and Regina had only confirmed it for him when he’d asked. Whatever happened in there tonight has clearly shaken Regina up _badly_ , and for the first time, he wonders if she’s the only one who can be harmed in there.

 _Panic is a natural reaction_ , Doctor Hopper had said. _When that’s the first thing you feel, try to find ways to curb it. Look at the situation logically._

Robin takes a deep breath to steady himself, fingers stilling in Regina’s hair. “Is something wrong?” he asks. “With you, or the baby?”

Regina shakes her head slightly against his chest, touch still gentle and reverent, and Robin feels his panic unfurl and dissipate. “I just --” She stops for a moment, clears her throat and curls a little closer to him. “I just wish I was far enough along to feel it moving, you know? That way I’d know for sure if something was really wrong.”

Ache twists painfully in Robin’s chest but he ignores it, knowing that it’s useless without direction. “We could see Doctor Whale in the morning,” he suggests, resuming carding his fingers through her hair.

Again, Regina shakes her head. “No, I -- I think everything’s okay. I just… don’t know how much of an impression the Netherworld will leave on the baby,” she admits, sounding unusually young. “Its magic is already reacting to my experiences so _strongly_. I don’t --” She stops again, her swallow audible even as she turns to bury her face against his chest. When she speaks again, her voice is barely above a whisper. “I wouldn’t want the baby to remember tonight.”

Once more, Robin’s hand stills in her hair, and it takes a fair amount of restraint not to force her to meet his eyes. He could wait her out, let her tell him about her most recent experience in her own time, but the opening is there for the taking, if he wants it. He could easily ask her now, might even get an actual answer out of her, now that they’re really _talking_. But Robin is slowly coming to realize that the solution to her issues in the Hall of Mirrors might not be his to find. And that -- that’s difficult to stomach, but he also knows that it doesn’t make him useless. He still has the opportunity to _be here_ , to anchor her to reality, to bring her comfort and reassurance. Even if David is the one to find a solution to Regina’s problem, Robin still has the opportunity to help her cope with the trauma in the interim. “Tell me what happened in there tonight,” he requests, “and maybe I can help you _forget_.”

Slowly, Regina shifts her head to look up at him. She seems… grateful, if a little cautious, but the way her eyes are studying him leaves him unsettled. She’s grappling with something, that much is obvious, but he doesn’t think she’s deliberating whether or not to tell him what happened in the Hall of Mirrors tonight. This -- this feels like something else, like the way she’d been unsure of him earlier, disoriented and distrusting. It’s not quite the same; she obviously still recognizes him, and her expression is much more open. But she’s… tentative in the way she reaches up a hand to cup his cheek, hesitant as she leans in a little closer, eyes flicking down to his lips. Again, it feels oddly young of her, too much like Robin supposes the moment before a first kiss is like for most people (his own memories of that particular first are not ones he likes to relive). It’s not -- it’s not _her_ , not the woman he knows and loves and kisses. This is not the Regina who had come striding into his camp well past midnight and yanked him into a searing kiss. This is not the Regina who finds strength when she’s at her most vulnerable. This -- this is a Regina who is afraid to make a move for fear of making the wrong one, and the Regina he loves is not afraid to make mistakes anymore.

He wonders, briefly, if whatever happened in the Hall of Mirrors tonight is to blame for this sudden shift in behavior, but Robin doesn’t dwell on it for long. He can’t, not with the way Regina runs her thumb along the apple of his cheek, not with the way her lips curve into an almost-smile. There’s something achingly familiar in her eyes, now -- the same thing he’d seen in the spring when he’d offered her his heart after hers had been taken, the same thing he’d seen lit by firelight in her office. It’s a warm sort of disbelief, an appreciation for his place in her life when she’d spent so long thinking she’d never have love like this. This -- _this_ is the Regina he knows. And in spite of her tentative nature at the moment -- in spite of the warped games the Hall of Mirrors likes to play -- the real Regina is still in there, somewhere.

He just has to _find her_.

So it’s with the utmost care that Robin follows her lead and leans in to meet her halfway, eyes beginning to flutter shut as he closes the distance between them. They’re a ghost of a breath away from lips brushing against one another when Regina pulls away abruptly, eyes narrowed a little as she wrinkles her nose. She presses the back of her hand against her mouth and takes a measured breath, color draining from her cheeks. “Regina?” he prompts, reaching out to tuck her hair behind her ear. “Are you alright? Are you -- do you think you’re going to be sick?”

Regina shakes her head. “No,” she denies, but she still looks far too pale. “I’m fine, I just --” She pauses for a minute, swallows audibly before looking back up at him. “I just need a minute.” And before he can ask any other questions, she’s extracting herself out from under his arm and pushing herself to her feet. He watches as she makes her way around the bed, rising to his feet without hesitation when he sees her heading for the bathroom. He cannot help the way panic bubbles and boils in his gut at the thought that she’s lying to him, that she’s actually sick this time, but he tries his hardest to tamp the feeling down in favor of looking for logic to anchor him.

He’s startled into sinking down onto his side of the mattress when he sees her reach for her toothbrush, his eyes narrowing in confusion. She hasn’t had much of a complex about morning breath for months now (if one could even really call this morning breath, given the oddity of the hour), so the sudden urge and apparent necessity to brush her teeth right now seems… peculiar. He’s careful in his study of her as he watches her brush her teeth rather vigorously, hand moving rapidly and without much finesse as she works.

She won’t look at her reflection in the mirror.

He doesn’t think much of it, at first, doesn’t see any particular reason for her to _need_ to be looking at the mirror while she brushes her teeth in near darkness. But he can tell that she’s avoiding looking in the mirror when she’s finished, notices the way she trains her gaze on the sink as she spits and rinses and dries off her mouth with a hand towel. He’s lived with her for nearly two months now, has watched her go through rituals and routines twice a day and begun to pick up on her habits and quirks. She doesn’t normally go to quite this much trouble to _avoid_ her own reflection.

Robin is thoroughly unsurprised.

But the change in behavior just strengthens his resolve now, because this, at least, makes a little more sense to him. He can understand why she’s avoiding mirrors in her waking hours, given everything she’s been going through this month, and Robin is reminded once again why it’s so important for him to be here for her when she wakes.

If she’s here with him, she’s not in the Hall of Mirrors, and if she’s not there, then she’s not trapped.

She still has a chance to get out.

Hands gripping the edge of the sink counter tightly, Regina exhales heavily and closes her eyes. Robin's fingers twitch anxiously where they're gripping the edge of the mattress, longing to reach out and touch her, but he forces himself to stay put, sensing she needs a moment and some space to collect herself. But one moment turns into another, and then another, and another, and Regina’s chest starts to move more rapidly with each passing moment, lungs expanding and contracting in spasms. She’s quiet -- _too_ quiet, and something in his soul… drifts.

He’s on his feet without even really thinking about it, quickly closing the distance between them and coming to a halt at the threshold to the bathroom. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t look up at him, doesn’t acknowledge his presence at all, and it’s with a tentative, gentle hand that Robin reaches out to touch her shoulder. She inhales sharply at his touch and glances at where his hand rests upon her shoulder before flicking her eyes up to meet his own. The beat of a breath passes between them as something shifts in her eyes, and then she’s releasing her grip on the counter and fisting her hands in his shirt to pull him in for a kiss.

And oh, _there_ Regina is.

It’s like coming home, he thinks as he runs his fingers through her hair, the way she settles into his embrace like the anchorage of a boat in harbor. She tastes like the cinnamon of her toothpaste, fresh and spiced, and there is such _heat_ behind her kiss that it feels like their first.

Unlike their first kiss, however, there’s no hesitation in the moment that follows, their lips meeting again with familiarity and ease. She smiles into the next kiss as she moves her hands to his waist, _slipping her hands beneath his coat to pull him closer_. A gasping breath between kisses, igniting a fire low in his belly _as wood crackles and pops behind them_. She takes a step back and he follows, _drawn to her_ ; another step back and _he stumbles_ ; one more and she pulls him flush against her as she presses her back against the wall, _bark scratching roughly against his knuckles_ as he moves to cradle the back of her head with his hand.

Even now, he is still bewitched by her, body and soul.

She makes a pleased sound against his mouth before breaking their steady stream of kisses, eyes warm and unfocused as she blinks up at him. He darts back in to kiss her quickly, unable to help himself, relishing in the sound of her quiet laugh as he dispels her efforts to break apart with a staccato set of a kiss-kiss-kiss. It takes her anchoring a hand on his jaw to keep him from seeking out her lips again, but rather than stop him entirely, she merely redirects his mouth to her jawline, encouraging his trail of kisses along the column of her throat. She lets out a sigh of contentment as he leaves wet kisses against her skin, fingers dragging tantalizingly along his arm. Her hand grips his hair hard when he nips at her earlobe and it stokes the fire in his belly, leaving him _dizzy_ with how much he wants her right now, and he only just barely manages not to jerk his hips against her. He needs to _focus_ , needs to keep Regina present, needs to keep her here and now and awake because if she’s here with him, then she’s not lost, and he’s not at risk of losing her.

 _Fuck_.

Determined, Robin shifts to recapture her lips with his own, mindful of the space her belly occupies between them as he presses a little closer to her, free hand curling around her waist. He can feel her relax against him a little, hand slackening its grip in his hair, but the moment is brief, gone just as soon as it appeared. She takes a shuddering gasp between kisses, barely meets him for a second kiss before she’s tearing her lips away and redirecting his attentions back to her neck. He bites back a noise of displeasure and exhales sharply through his nose as he presses a kiss against her pulse point, trying to tamp down his aggravation. If this is what she needs, then fine, he can give that to her, can leave a mark or two along her neck and press wet kisses against her ear and --

It happens in the space of a second, really, but it’s a second slowed for Robin as his eyes shift briefly to gauge her expression. Her nails dig into his scalp painfully as she pulls him even closer against her, bottom lip teased between her teeth, but the thing that captures his attention -- the thing that gives him pause more than anything else -- is her eyes. There is _darkness_ in them, black and all-consuming, and her gaze is steadfastly focused on a spot directly behind him.

The mirror.

Robin goes cold.

He doesn’t think twice about pulling her hand away from his scalp and putting a little space between them, and he moves the hand from her waist up to her face to cradle her jaw. “Regina,” he says, ducking his head a little to try and get her to look at him. But she won’t look at him, won’t so much as move or tear her eyes away from whatever mirage the mirror behind him is mystifying her with and she is _lost_ to him, no, no, _no_. “Regina,” he says again, much more firmly, and this time, he moves his body to block her view of the mirror. At once, the darkness in her eyes starts to recede, replaced with confusion, and Robin uses the hand on her face to gently tilt her head up toward him. “Eyes on me,” he says. “Forget about the mirror for a minute. Just… focus on me, alright? You’re awake.”

It’s remarkable how quickly her eyes clear when they’re locked with his, but he can see the remnants of her earlier fear creeping back in around the edges again as she grips his arms tight. “I know,” she says, soft and quiet. “I just -- I want you. I want _you_ ,” she breathes, resting her forehead against his.

“You have me,” Robin promises, grasping one of her hands and lacing their fingers together. “I’m right here.” She lets out a frustrated sound, shaking her head slightly before angling her head to recapture his lips with her own. But there’s a sense of urgency that wasn’t there before, a quiet sort of desperation, enough to make him pull away again. “Regina --”

“ _Please_ ,” she whispers, anchoring a hand on each cheek. “I don’t want to go back to sleep.”

It’s like a punch to a chest, that, like he’s had the wind knocked out of him, and his heartbeat is a constant, thudding ache in his chest. Regina is afraid; god, she’s _so_ afraid of what happens when she goes to the Hall of Mirrors. Whatever happened to her in there tonight has her scared enough into staying awake, and it takes nearly everything in him not to _beg_ her to tell him what she experienced. She doesn’t want to talk about it right now, doesn’t even want to _think_ about it, and Robin’s heart finally catches up to what his mind had offered up not moments ago.

He needs to help her forget.

Gently, he removes her hands from his face and presses a kiss to her fingertips. “Alright,” he agrees, giving her hands a gentle squeeze. “You don’t have to go back to sleep, but you should -- let’s get back into bed, at least,” he suggests, biting back what it is that he really wants to say.

_You should get away from the mirror._

She doesn’t protest or pull away at his suggestion, thankfully, just lets him take her by the hand and follows him back into their bed, mattress creaking a bit as they sink back down. They take a moment to resituate themselves, pillows plumped as they burrow back under blankets and curl up on their sides to face one another in the center of the bed. His hand settles on her waist to pull her toward him, but she’s curling closer before he even has the chance, nudging a leg between his own and curling her toes against his ankle. Her skin is _freezing_ , chill like the nip of a winter wind, and he tenses and shivers under her touch. He’s quick to eliminate as much space between them as he can after that, hand rubbing soothingly against her back as he presses a kiss to her temple and breathes warmth into her skin. Her belly is pressed up a little uncomfortably against him, but she does relax a little under his touch, angling her head up just enough so she can brush the barest of kisses against his nose, lips tantalizingly close to his own.

When Regina kisses him, it feels like hope.

There’s something almost centered about the way they lose themselves in their kisses, like they’ve created the eye of a storm, calm amongst chaos. It’s in the sweet, supple drag of her lips against his, a balm to skin cold and chapped. It’s in the way each breath between kisses is steady against his skin, washing him in the tide of her breathing. It’s in the gentle movement of her hand as she cradles his jaw, stubble scratching skin soft and smooth, and it’s in the weight of his hand as he works his fingers into her hair and anchors there, locks luxurious and longer than they’ve ever been in this world.

He wonders, idly, if she’ll continue to grow it out, if it’ll ever be as long as it was in the Enchanted Forest. He’d been sorely tempted by the length of it back then, had on more than one occasion watched her pluck pins from places to allow her locks to unfurl and tumble and cascade down the length of her back. He’d longed to sink his fingers into her hair and press his lips to hers, and he remembers their almost first kiss in the stables well over a year ago. He’d been drawn to her, then, a moth to a flame, and with his hands in her hair and his lips pressed against hers now, Robin thinks that this feels much the same. There is nothing but the way love burns between them, a lone light in the midst of mirrored darkness.

If this is hope, this is _madness_ , but then again, so is love.

And _god_ , Robin loves her.

“I know,” Regina mumbles against his mouth, and it takes Robin a moment to realize that he’d voiced the sentiment out loud. She captures his lips in one last kiss, soft and supple and sure, before she pulls away a little, hand slipping down and away from his face to rest over his heart. “I just… wanted to be sure of you.”

His brow furrows as her other hand curls around his arm, fingers dancing delicately over the ink etched into his skin. There’s something almost familiar about it -- the way she touches his tattoo almost reverently, the look of affectionate study in her eyes. He’s seen them in flashes before, he thinks: by a fire; backlit by morning light; amongst a grove of trees. The memories are all a bit hazy to him at the moment, half-forgotten in his fatigue, but he has enough pieces to put together. This -- tonight -- isn’t any different than the times before, when she’d sought him out for reminders and reassurance. This he knows he can do, can bring her calm and comfort when she worries the most.

And while there’s something hauntingly familiar in what she’s confessed -- _I just wanted to be sure of you_ \-- it’s not lost on Robin that her version of that is very different from his own. He’d said the same thing, the night he’d woken from his own nightmares, but he’d been looking to do what he’s always done -- to quell his fear of loss. Regina is looking for something else -- a reminder, at least, of who he is and that he’s still here.

Maybe this isn’t about forgetting, after all.

What he wouldn’t give to know what happened to her in the Hall of Mirrors tonight.

He’s startled back into focus when her fingertips trace his hairline. “You’re tired,” she says, more of a statement of fact than an actual observation.

He draws in a breath to help center him and untangles his fingers from her hair to curl his hand around her waist. “No more than you, I imagine,” he says, and it’s only now that he can hear how scratchy his voice sounds, the way it’s thick with exhaustion.

She purses her lips a bit at that, clearly displeased -- about what, it’d take him more time to figure out, time and a mind that isn’t quite in shambles from a lack of sleep. There’s an argument there, poised on her tongue, but she doesn’t speak just yet. She moves her hand away from his chest, down and around to his back so she can slip her fingers up under his sleep shirt. She’s gentle as she drags her fingertips across the small of his back and traces up along the column of his spine, a not quite teasing touch that has his eyes fluttering shut. Up, down, up, down, and he’s not entirely sure how long it is before she finally speaks, before it finally sinks in what it is that she’s doing. “Go back to sleep, Robin.”

He inhales sharply and shifts in her embrace, forcing her to rest her palm flat against his back. He opens his eyes to glare at her but there’s no heat behind it, only a clear sense of knowing. She knows him well too, it seems, knows the subtle ways to seduce him into sleep that are really rather unfair at the moment. Because it doesn’t matter how exhausted he is; he _can’t_ sleep -- not now. “You won’t,” he argues, because she’d told him as much in the bathroom only moments ago. “You won’t go back to sleep.”

She worries her lip between her teeth, clearly deliberating something, before she finally ceases the attention she’s paying to his tattoo in order to lace their fingers together. “I’ll try.”

“And if you can’t?” Robin asks, barely stifling a yawn.

“I’ll find a way to pass the time,” she says. “I’ve had plenty of sleepless nights in my life, Robin. These aren’t all that different.”

There’s something there, in her use of _these_ , but his eyes are heavy and lidded and she’s resumed the soothing stroking of his spine, _damnit_. She knows him too well, has taken the time to learn his body, knows what it takes to make him feel comfortable and safe. He wishes -- _wants_ to do the same for her, now, wants to follow through on his ability to _be here_ in a way that helps her when she returns from the Netherworld. “I just don’t want you to be awake and alone when you come back from there,” he murmurs, hating the way his words start to slur a bit.

Something flashes in her eyes at his words, but it’s gone almost as soon as it appeared, replaced almost instantly with an affectionate teasing. “I’d hardly call this _alone_ ,” she says, glancing pointedly down at her still small belly. It’s enough to prompt a sleepy smile from him as he slides his hand from her waist to her belly, and she matches him with a smile of her own, soft and warm. “I’m not alone,” she insists, resting her forehead against his own. “Not with you here with me.”

And _there’s_ the reassurance he’s been searching for: a confirmation that he’s doing what she’s asked of him, that he’s useful to her, that -- above all else -- she feels safe here with him when she wakes. And in spite of her earlier doubt, Regina still trusts him to _be here_. Come morning, he’ll ask for more -- more answers, more ways to help.

For now, this is all Robin can ask for; for now, this is enough.

It’s enough to quiet the din of his worry and doubt to white noise, enough to release the tension in his muscles and finally let his eyes slip shut. He loses himself in the movement of her fingers along his spine, lets himself be lulled into a sense of security by the tide of her breathing. “I love you,” he breathes, in lieu of sweet dreams, and Robin finds peace in the eye of her storm.

And anchored to love by skin and by soul, Robin finally lets sleep pull him under.

When he wakes again, the eye of the storm has passed over them.

There are very few things he’s aware of as consciousness slowly starts to creep in around the edges of sleep. It’s cold, for one, but the cozy curling of bedsheets around his body is wonderfully warm. He’s not sure at what point during the night he must’ve disentangled himself from Regina, but he doesn’t mind too terribly. Comfortable in his nest and more than a little lethargic, he curls a little tighter around his pillow and flexes his toes, legs and arms unfurling into a stretch as he reaches out under the covers to seek out Regina’s warmth and --

Nothing.

Blearily, Robin blinks his eyes open and glances at the opposite side of the bed.

Empty.

The previous night comes back to him in flashes -- Regina’s magic keeping them apart and a truth she’d kept hidden and her kisses in the bathroom and _I just wanted to be sure of you_ and fear, so much fear. Now, all Robin is left with is lingering exhaustion and too many questions and an empty bed and _panic_.

He bolts upright in bed, blankets falling to his hips as he glances wildly around the room, breathing quickening and heart pounding and _where is she_? He barely gives a second thought to anything else -- to the day of the week or the time of day or where else she might be; to the frigid chill of the morning air or the sleep in his eyes or the weight in his bones or the way his hands shake with worry. It’s panic -- he _knows_ it’s panic because it’s hard to breathe and his legs feel unsteady as he stumbles out of the bedroom and _where is she_? Logic, logic, he’s supposed to find something logical to anchor him and quell his panic.

 _Where is she_?

He stops out on the landing and grips the railing tight, forcing his body to stay still and his mind to _work_ while he forces air back into his lungs. He’s done this before -- mere weeks ago, when he’d woken up in the middle of the night to find her missing from their bed the night she’d somehow transported herself to the Charmings’. The memory is logic enough as it provides him with a plan, but he remembers how _badly_ the rest of that night and morning had gone. He remembers panic and fear and feeling useless and Regina keeping the truth from him and that -- _that_ is enough to feed his panic and keep it alive, a too-loud roaring in his ears.

He checks the upstairs first -- the boys’ rooms are empty, this week, but the spare room and second bathroom yield no results. Robin is quick on his feet down the stairs, hand bumping along the railing in time with his movements, and with a quick glance into the living room and dining room, he rushes down the back hallway toward the study and the laundry. Still, nothing, and his mind is already grasping two steps ahead of him as he makes his way toward the kitchen. The yards, next, and the garage, and if she’s not there then he’ll get dressed and call David on his way to the town hall and --

He stops short once he crosses the threshold into the kitchen, hand resting against the wall for purchase when he finally catches sight of her. She’s taken up residence next to the kitchen sink, back facing him as she looks out of one of the windows to the backyard, curtains pushed aside for a better view. And even though she doesn’t turn around or so much as acknowledge his sudden presence, Robin finds that he can breathe a little easier at the mere sight of her.

She’s _safe_.

It doesn’t disappear entirely, the rush of panic, but it fades and recedes into white noise again, a quiet undercurrent that Robin can ignore. He closes his eyes for a moment as his fingers flex against the wall and he catches his breath -- _in, out, again_.

He hasn’t lost her.

There is still hope for them, yet.

He spares a passing thought for Mary Margaret and her jar of quarters before opening his eyes, his gaze settling on Regina again with ease. She’s still looking out the kitchen window, hands resting against the edge of the counter, and Robin wonders, for a moment, how long she’s been down here, if she’d gone back to sleep at all. The clock on oven tells him that it’s early, still, but she’d be up in under an hour to start getting ready for work anyway.

Still, they have a bit of extra time this morning, and Robin intends to put it to good use by making her breakfast (he’s lost track of whose turn it is, honestly, but it hardly matters) and making them both a spot of tea. It’ll do them both some good, he thinks, will quell the rest of his panic and hopefully temper Regina’s fear. Calm nerves lead to clear thoughts, after all, and maybe then they can start talking again.

Maybe she’ll finally tell him what happened.

He doesn’t quite manage to stifle a sleepy yawn as he shuffles across the kitchen to where she’s standing, the few hours of sleep he’d managed to get not nearly enough to make him feel well rested. Still, he feels a little better just being closer to her, and as he slows to a stop behind her, he can make out the faint vestiges of their reflection in the kitchen window. He reaches for her without a second thought, hand moving to brush hair away from one side of her neck so he can press a kiss to the skin there --

She whirls around before he can so much as blink or breathe, grip vice-like as her hand encloses around his forearm. He starts a little, inhaling sharply when she tightens her grip and her fingers press against bone, but she doesn’t give him a chance to speak before magic manifests out of her hand. It’s the same spark that it’s been all month, but it stings a little this time, just like it had last night, and Robin has to clamp his lips together to keep from betraying his pain. This is magic that belongs to their child, and it only manifests when she feels the need to protect. It occurs to him, then, that he may have startled her by not announcing his presence a moment ago, and this -- this is just an instinctual reaction. He should apologize, explain his intentions, but the first thing that comes out of his mouth is, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Except he never gets the entire sentence out of his mouth because she squeezes his arm even tighter, sparks manifesting steadily like a current, and Robin feels the ache of pain all the way down to his bones. “Regina, let me go,” he grits out, determined not to let his pain show for fear of making her put her walls back up. But she doesn’t, she won’t, she refuses, and for the first time since his arrival in the kitchen, Robin looks -- _really_ looks -- into her eyes.

They’re _flooded_ with darkness.

This isn’t her -- it’s not -- she must’ve gone back to the Hall of Mirrors, must still be hallucinating, must not know it’s him. She wouldn’t do this, otherwise, would never hurt him like this, she is _lost_ to him again and the skin of his arm has started to split open and _fucking hell_ , this hurts. He can feel the stinging, aching pain radiate out from his arm into the rest of his body as her fingers curl around him like she’s trying to break his arm ( _trying to crush it like a heart_ , the darkness in his soul whispers, but he buries it down deep). It seizes up the muscles in his bicep, steals the breath from his lungs and makes his heart pound in his chest again, and his voice is shaking something awful when he finally manages to speak. “Regina,” he pleads around a pained gasp, hardly daring to move. “You’re hurting me, let me go.”

It seems to strike a chord with her, the admission, and it takes a moment -- a very long moment -- for her eyes to start to clear and the darkness to recede, but recognition dawns in her irises like light. She blinks -- once, twice -- before she’s fully present again, and the aching familiarity with which she looks at him is enough to cause the sparks to stop. “Robin,” she says, the fervent whisper of a lover. He merely offers her an affirming nod, unable to speak for a moment, and she holds his gaze for another moment still before glancing over at where she’s still gripping his arm tight. “ _Oh_ ,” she breathes, sounding properly horrified and relinquishing her hold on him quickly. “I -- I didn’t mean -- I’m sorry, I --”

“I know,” Robin says, slowly lowering his arm and wincing a bit when he tries to rub the affected spot soothingly. “You were startled, you were just reacting to --”

“No,” she protests, voice dangerously low as she looks down at her hands. “I _hurt_ you, I --” She cuts herself off, inhales sharply and looks at her hands like they’re foreign to her, and it’s only when Robin follows her gaze that he realizes her hands are shaking.

She’s frightened.

Regina leans against the edge of the counter, clearly stunned and upset. “Mother was right,” she says faintly, still not looking up at him. “I just destroy everything I touch.”

“No,” Robin argues immediately, flexing his fingers and taking a careful step toward her. “No, you don’t. This magic isn’t yours, you can’t control it --”

“Exactly,” she breathes. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, but _I did_. I hurt you and Mary Margaret and Blue, I --” She stops abruptly, finally looks up at him again with a rather pained expression, and it’s only now that Robin can see just how _much_ this whole ordeal is taking its toll on her. She looks exhausted and paranoid and _lost_ \-- dark circles under bloodshot eyes, worry-weighted wrinkles, skin a bit ashen. “What if I hurt the boys?” she whispers, chin trembling. “It’s not safe to be around me anymore.”

“ _No_ ,” Robin protests vehemently, closing the distance between them without a second thought. The fear he'd had prior to Shattered Sight makes its way front and center again, and Robin sees, now, what happens to her when he leaves her alone with her demons for too long.

He shouldn’t have gone back to sleep.

His fingers itch and shake with longing to touch her and reach for her hand, but he keeps his hands to himself for a moment longer, wanting her to trust herself. “Regina, we have _had_ this argument before, remember? You think you’re a danger to others, but _you’re not_. And isolating yourself is _not_ the answer.”

Something shifts in her expression at that -- discomfort and guilt but also love and longing and something not quite discernable. Regina trusts him, he thinks, but he’s not sure that’s the issue here. He thinks maybe she’s having a little trouble trusting herself, and until she does that, they are at a standstill. She eyes his arm with apprehension, and he knows she’s taking in the marred, red skin that’s broken open a bit (he’ll have to clean and wrap it soon, he knows, but it’s not exactly high on his list of priorities at the moment). Her hands are still shaking a bit as she reaches for him, touch feather-light and gentle as she traces around the injury. “I hurt you,” she says, and something in her voice breaks open.

Robin works his jaw a little and watches the path her fingers follow, around and around and around they go. They’re at an impasse, he can tell, and the only way they’re going to move past it -- the only way he’s going to get her to trust herself and open up to him about what the hell happened last night -- is if he compromises a little. He’s careful and calculated in the way he reaches for her hand to still her movement, gentle in the way he clasps her hand with his own. “Yes,” he agrees, however reluctantly, “you did. And you,” he adds, using his free hand to tilt her chin up so their eyes meet, “are _hurting_.”

It’s not an excuse, not rationalizing; he hopes her mind is unmuddled enough to see that clearly. Whether or not she’s in full control of her own actions right now isn’t really the point, and it’s not one he wants to debate, either. _All_ he wants -- all he’s _ever_ wanted -- is to help her through this, and it’s clear that the only way to do that is together.

Her expression softens a little after a moment, and she looks more present than she has all morning. “And you would never begrudge me that,” she says.

“Never,” he promises, and _oh_ , what a difference a year makes. A year ago, they were in another realm exchanging barbs and flirtations alike. A year ago, she was still aching over the loss of Henry, angry and hurting and walls firmly up. A year ago, he’d dared to try and kiss her in the stables, and she’d run from him. Now, their family is rooted here, joined and expanding as they make a home together. Now, Regina trusts him enough not to keep her secrets in the dark, and all Robin has to do to bring them to light is _ask_.

He can only hope she’s done running.

Slowly, he releases his hold on her chin and moves to tuck her hair behind her ear, not wanting to startle her again. She squeezes his hand in kind, relaxing a little under his touch, and it’s only then that he asks, “What happened to you in the Hall of Mirrors last night?”

She doesn’t tense up again, thankfully, but her swallow is audible and there’s something almost… resigned in the way she’s looking at him. She takes a breath, and then another before she speaks, and her voice is so quiet that he almost doesn’t hear her. “I saw you.”

He’s unsuccessful in masking his surprise, brow knitting a little in confusion as her confession sinks in. “You saw… _me_?” he asks. “And you -- what, you thought I was really in there with you?” She inhales sharply and bites her lip but it’s a non-answer, nothing Robin can make sense of. “I don’t understand,” he admits, cradling her jaw. “I haven’t been under a sleeping curse. Why would you think that I --” He tapers off when her free hand curls around his right arm, fingers tracing up over uninjured skin before settling against the ink that’s been sewn into his skin. “ _Oh_ ,” he says faintly, the phantom ache of pain he’d felt in Maleficent’s dungeon a dull throbbing in his chest. “Is that -- is that what you meant when you said you were trying to protect me? You were worried that because my soul is tethered to yours, that you’d somehow pull me in there with you?”

“ _Yes_ ,” she says, sounding a bit like she’s had the wind knocked out of her. “Henry and Mary Margaret and David and Aurora -- they’ve all moved on. But I haven’t, and you know how worried I’ve been about the baby. You saw --” She stops, swallows audibly again and drums her fingers against his tattoo, worrying her lip between her teeth. “You saw the marks on my wrists,” she says, even more quiet still.

“Oh, love,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her forehead, lips lingering for a moment. “I'm alright. Whatever you saw in there, I can promise you it wasn’t really me.”

“I know,” she says simply.

Robin narrows his eyes, more confused than before. She’s been afraid of not being able to tell the difference between the visions and reality, but that’s… clearly not the case here. If she _knows_ he wasn’t really in the Netherworld with her -- if she knows that what she saw was just another vision like the others -- then she’s rattled by something else. It’s all a bit of a disconnect in his mind while he tries to put the pieces together, tries to remember what she’d confessed to him last week under the apple tree. _Mostly they just… talk_ , she’d said. _They try to get under my skin_.

The pieces start to come together rapidly, then -- the way she’d doubted his love last night and the desperate way she’d wanted him and _I just wanted to be sure of you_. “It spoke to you,” he murmurs, pulling back to look at her properly. “The vision of me, it spoke to you. What did it say?”

Regina just shakes her head, but she won’t look him in the eyes. “What it said doesn’t matter.”

And then the final pieces clicks into place -- _sometimes they get a little aggressive_ and the shield she’d erected between them and her disbelief in the notion that he wouldn’t hurt her and the broken skin on his arm and _you saw the marks on my wrist_ \-- and something in Robin goes cold.

She’s afraid of him.

Or she was, at least, for a while last night and just a few moments ago this morning. Whatever happened in there -- whatever… _it_ did to her has lingered well into wakefulness. He’s had to coerce her into belief and trust and love, has startled her more than once and felt the way she’d gone stiff against him last night, and Robin suddenly feels hyper-aware of every touch, every movement he makes in her presence. Slowly, he lets his hand drop away from her face so he can take up her other hand, and he can only hope that this is enough to anchor them through the rest of this conversation. And _still_ , Regina won’t look him in the eyes, and Robin’s voice is strained when he asks, “What did I do?”

Another audible swallow, a soft exhale, and when Regina finally, _finally_ looks up at him, ache twists in Robin’s chest when he sees how close she is to tears. “You tried to kill me.”

Robin blinks twice, unsure if he’s heard her right. “What?”

Regina squeezes his hands ever so slightly but she doesn’t look away, not now, and her voice sounds scratchy, raw when she speaks. “You held the tip of an arrow to my throat,” she says, “and you tried to kill me.”

And Robin can see it all in her eyes -- the resignation and the ache and the disappointment -- and he hates how easily he understands. It’s not that she’d believed it was really _him_ trying to kill her; it’s that she believed he _could_.

He thinks that maybe she still does.

Something hot and heavy settles in the pit of his stomach, and it takes everything in him not to cradle her head in his hands again. “You know that wasn’t real,” he says, his voice low, and it’s more of a question than he wants it to be. “You know I would never --”

“I know,” she says, and it’s her reassuring him, this time, her words gentle and rushed. “I know you’d never hurt me.”

They both hear the word she leaves unspoken anyway: _now_.

The unease in the pit of his stomach is like a weight against his soul, and somewhere in him, Robin knows that they’re both thinking the same thing. The darker parts of her past have always been more known than his -- burned villages and heartless corpses and too many heads on spikes. But her darkness has bled into his own, had ignited the flames that scorched his world into shades of black and white, and he remembers a time -- both long ago and more recently than he’d like to admit -- that he wished for an opportunity to claim justice for the role she’d played in what they _thought_ had happened to Marian.

Not justice -- _vengence_.

Darkness had left his soul with the arrow that flew from his bow, and Regina had caught it and replaced it with light.

The weight in his chest suddenly feels old and lived in, like he’s been carrying it around for a long time, and as darkness creeps in around the edges again, Robin remembers what he’d done to his father. He remembers the blood on his hands, back then, and Shattered Sight is suddenly as fresh as the open wound on his arm.

Something between them fractures, Robin’s hands shaking in her grasp, and he can only hope it doesn’t break. “ _Regina_ \--”

“Things were supposed to be getting better,” she says, seemingly unaware that she’s cut him off. She’s not looking at him directly anymore, her eyes unfocused, but her hands grip his tighter still, and she’s _trying_ , he thinks, to stay present. “I _talked_ to you. I talked to Henry. I told you both what was happening. I started making a list of things to talk to David about, I was sleeping better at night and then last night, you -- it,” she says, her hands squeezing his almost painfully hard as she corrects herself midway through. “I saw that vision of you in the Hall of Mirrors and it took my trust in you and _twisted it_ into something dark and now -- now I’m too afraid to do so much as _close my eyes_ ,” she gasps, breathing hard. “I couldn’t go back to sleep, I --”

“C’mere,” he murmurs, tugging her gently into his arms.

She goes with his pull easily, thankfully, arms wrapped around his waist and face tucked against his neck. “I can’t do this anymore,” she murmurs against his skin. “I can’t keep wondering if I’ll go back there when I fall asleep. I can’t go back there without knowing how to get out. I can’t -- I can’t go back there again, Robin, not after last night. I won’t. I won’t go back there when all that place does is just put voices in my head that take --” She cuts herself off abruptly and exhales heavily, but Robin already has the final piece in place.

 _They try to pick my mind apart_ , she’d said, and Regina Mills, it seems, has finally come unhinged.

This -- _this_ is what she’s been trying _valiantly_ to protect him from. The physical harm that she’s been subjected to -- that’s nothing in comparison to what that place has done to her mind and her soul. All the Hall of Mirrors does, it seems, is take every last good thing and find a way to make it fracture and break open, pulling on loose threads until they unravel and systematically picking her mind apart until she is lost to even herself. This is torture of an entirely different sort, and in this moment, Robin has absolutely no doubt of Regina’s regard for him.

She _loves_ him -- as much as she loves anyone she considers her family -- and it is costing her nearly _everything_.

It’s that -- the knowledge that even in utter darkness, her love burns like a lone light -- which bolsters his devotion and fuels his drive, and it’s his turn to be the eye of her storm. He presses a kiss to her temple and another to her forehead before pulling back and finally cupping her face in his hands again. “Talk to David,” he urges, knowing the only way through this -- the only option they’ve _got_ is to move forward with Henry’s suggestion. “ _Today_ ,” he adds emphatically. “Call in sick to work. Use the morning to pull yourself together and work out what you need to share with him in order for him to help you.”

The corner of Regina’s mouth twitches but it’s nothing close to a smile. “There are things I haven’t even shared with you, yet.”

Robin hesitates for a beat and swallows down the remainder of his ache. “I’m listening, if you’re still willing. And I -- I understand your hesitation, Regina,” he says, not giving her a chance to voice a protest. “I know you’ve been trying to protect us from -- from what you’ve been going through,” he settles on, not wanting to make her feel worse than she already does. “But… if I’m being honest? I’m really more concerned about you.”

“You’re always concerned about me,” she argues. The curve of her mouth is closer to a smile than before, but it’s tight around the edges, anxious and unsettled.

He knows she’s thinking of their argument on the pier -- so is he -- but his worries come from a different place now, he thinks. He’s not quite so worried about what she might do to herself anymore, not when there are so many other forces at play. “Yes, I am,” he admits softly, running his thumb up and over the apple of her cheek in a gentle caress. “If I -- after last night, Regina, I don’t want to think about what might happen the next time you go into the Hall of Mirrors, either. I don’t want to think about what might be worse than an arrow against your throat. I don’t --” He inhales sharply and ignores the stinging of tears in his eyes. “Love, I woke up to an empty bed this morning. That’s the second time this month,” he reminds her. “Please don’t ask me to do it again -- not when we both know what it might mean next time.”

Her expression is pained as she meets his eyes, and he can tell by the strain in her voice that her patience is wearing thin. “I don’t have any control over what happens to me,” she says, and it sounds less like a reminder and more like an admission. “I can’t promise you that everything will be okay.”

“I’m not asking you to,” he rushes to assure her, keeping his hands anchored on either side of her face. “All I’m asking for you to do is have _faith_. The minute you stop believing that things will get better is the minute they absolutely won’t.”

She doesn’t so much as roll her eyes at the sentiment, doesn’t make a disparaging noise or react to it at all. “You don’t understand,” she says, voice low and a little desperate. “I don’t have control. I don’t like not having control. I don’t like the person it turns me into. I don’t like -- I _hate_ the way it makes me feel, like I’m … _weak_ ,” she says, practically spitting the word. She pulls out of his embrace, clearly tense and uncomfortable, and turns back around to take up residence at the kitchen sink again. Her hands grip the edge of the counter tight, but this time she doesn’t look out of the window.

Even when it’s dark and distorted, she’s ignoring her own reflection.

Robin takes a moment to gather himself, breathes in and out and waits until his eyes don’t sting quite so much before he makes to follow her. Slowly, he closes the gap between them and murmurs her name to make sure she’s still aware of his presence -- a soft, lovestruck _Regina_ that tumbles from his lips like a vow. When she doesn’t reply, Robin reaches out a hand and settles it gently on her shoulder, touch tentative and feather-light so as not to startle her again. This time she’s present enough not to react with… ( _violence_ , his mind supplies, but he steadfastly ignores it) magic, silently inviting him to come closer. He takes the invitation eagerly, pressing his front to her back and wrapping his arms around her waist, hands settling over the small swell of her belly. Regina rests her hands atop his -- mindful of the injury on his arm -- and leans against him, head resting on his shoulder as she looks up at the ceiling. He gives her a moment to settle into his embrace before venturing, “You are not weak, darling.”

“That’s how I _feel_ ,” she says, and there’s a hint of exasperation in her tone, but he knows it’s not directed at him.

“I know,” he interjects quickly, rushing to reassure her. “I know you can’t help the way you feel, and I understand _why_ you feel that way, Regina, but I _promise you_ that you are _not_ weak.”

“Why?” she asks dryly, and the sarcasm creeping into her voice is both familiar and comforting to him. “Because I stand up to flying monkeys and wicked witches and dragons?”

“Because,” Robin says, gentle but pointed as he nudges her head with his shoulder to force her to look back at their silhouettes in the window, “the woman I met early last year was so ready to give up on everything in her life that she was prepared to put herself under a sleeping curse." She doesn’t tense up but he can hear the way her breath catches in her chest, can see how hard she swallows even in his peripheral vision. He’s pushing, he knows, but he needs her to understand what a second chance really means -- why he sees it in her. “I don’t see her anymore,” Robin murmurs into Regina’s ear. “She’s there, in the shadows at times, but she’s not _you_. I see _you_ , Regina. And _you_ \-- you’re fighting. God, you’re fighting so _hard_ in the face of all of this. I just -- I don’t want you to forget that you don’t have to do it alone. And that -- that doesn’t make you _weak_.”

Regina exhales slowly, absently running her thumbs back and forth over his knuckles. His words have struck a chord with her, he can tell, have settled into the spaces in her lungs where hope has been bleeding out. He can’t quite make out her expression, not like this, but she doesn’t leave him in the dark for long. There’s light in her eyes when she shifts her head to glance at him, that same warm appreciation he’d recognized just last night. Now, though, any traces of disbelief are gone, replaced by a faint, blossoming smile, and Robin knows the words weighing on Regina’s tongue before she so much as breathes them.

She’s going to say _I love you_.

Robin’s not sure he’s ready to hear it.

He’s carried around the weight of being the first to say it aloud for months, now, has had his heart laid bare since the summer. It’s a weight he’s been willing to bear because he hasn’t been alone in it. She’s carried around the weight of those words since she last said them to a lover -- to Daniel -- and Robin can’t blame her for being afraid to utter them again, given how things ended. But he hasn’t doubted her regard for him, and even if he had, any of those doubts would have evaporated this morning. He doesn’t -- he doesn’t _need_ to hear her say it, not right now, anyway. Eventually, yes, but not now.

It’s easy to love in the dark, but love that remains in the light that follows, love that endures -- _that_ is the strength that conquers all.

That, Robin thinks, is a promise they can both make -- to have _hope_.

Still, it seems like it takes her a great effort to muster up the words at all -- worry settling into the lines of her face, chin trembling ever so slightly, breath forced into her lungs. “I --” she says, but Robin keeps the words safe.

“I know,” he says simply, brushing his nose against her own.

Through the window, the sun starts to rise over the horizon, and together, they stand in the light.

* * * * *

David is never really sure if he's ever going to feel completely comfortable at Regina's house.

Between storming the house with a sword after the first curse broke and that seance to summon Regina's mother -- not to mention the handful of other unpleasant drop-ins he's had to do over the last year or so -- David knows he has good reason to approach the mansion with no small amount of trepidation. But he _has_ begun to feel a little more comfortable recently, at least; the family dinner Regina had invited them to last Friday night was proof enough of that. And there's something in particular about being in Regina's kitchen that makes him feel more comfortable than any other room in the house.

It's here, in her kitchen late Monday morning, that David finds himself waiting for her to come downstairs. There's a batch of freshly baked popovers in a basket on the island that smell _delicious_ , but David doesn't particularly want to incur Regina's wrath by taking a few without asking. So in an effort to distract himself from the way his mouth waters and his stomach growls, David leans against the island and surveys the various items adorning the refrigerator doors. It's more cluttered than he would expect, from Regina, but it at least seems to be sort of organized. There's a calendar tacked up on the right-hand side, events color-coordinated by person. He manages to catch a few scribbles here and there -- things like _dr. appt. @ 2:30p_ in purple and _back to school night @ 6:30p_ in orange -- but he doesn't linger too long, not wanting to invade their privacy too much. Below the calendar, there's a progress report from one of Henry's teachers pinned up next to a flyer for the Halloween carnival at the school. On the opposite door, one of Roland's drawings has been hung up underneath a few magnets. Slightly above sits a list of emergency contacts, the words _FIRE EXTINGUISHER LOCATED IN --_ written in bright red on the bottom of the paper.

And then David's eyes drift up above the ice maker, and there, tucked away in the upper left corner, is a sonogram.

It occurs to him, now, that there's a reason he's more comfortable here than in any other room in the house.

Here is where Regina's house becomes a home.

He shakes his head and looks away, mouth twitching into a smile as he digs his phone out of his pocket. He pulls up the message Regina had sent him earlier and reads it one more time, his curiosity piqued. She hadn't said all that much, really, just that she needed help with something and wanted to talk. Her office had been empty, though, when he'd gone over there earlier, and he'd been surprised to learn from her secretary that Regina had called out for the day. And with Robin being the one to answer the door a few minutes ago, David had quickly realized that whatever Regina wanted to discuss with him wasn't business.

It's personal.

He's unsure if that's a good thing or not. Still, the fact that she's seeking David's help, in particular, is enough to root him back to the heart of her home. He has as much of a place as Snow does here, he thinks, Regina's invitation carving out space for him in her life.

They’re family.

He's just depositing his phone back into his pocket when Robin rounds the corner into the kitchen. "Sorry about the wait," he sighs, leaning against the wall of cabinets and folding his arms over his chest.

David shrugs amicably. "It's fine," he says. "Emma's still down at the station, so I've got time unless there's an emergency." He hesitates for a minute before venturing, "Is Regina coming down soon?"

It's Robin's turn to hesitate, now, and he gives David a once-over before answering. "No, um -- she's upstairs still. She's waiting for you in the guest bedroom."

David's brow knits in confusion. "Is something wrong?" he asks. "I stopped by her office first, but her secretary said she called out sick --"

"No, nothing like that," Robin assures him, waving a hand dismissively. "I mean, the morning sickness comes and goes, but that's not why --" He stops for a minute and bites his lip, clearly trying to choose his words carefully. "She's... multi-tasking," Robin says. "She wanted to be comfortable when she talked to you."

David raises an eyebrow. "She needs to be multi-tasking to talk to me?"

The corner of Robin's mouth twitches and tightens a little, almost like he wants to smile. "It's not like that," he explains. "She did the same thing with me when we discussed matters this morning. Hence the popovers," he says, nodding at the basket perched on the island.

David glances over at it before turning his attention back to Robin. "Are you... not joining us, then?"

Robin takes a measured breath before shaking his head. "I'll be in the house if either of you need anything, but, um, no," he says. "Regina feels this is something she should do on her own."

"That sounds ominous," David says, half-joking.

Robin doesn't even laugh; he heaves a great sigh before closing his eyes, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. It's only when he looks back up that David notices the dark circles under his eyes, the way his shoulders sag with weight. "You should... head upstairs," Robin says finally. "She's waiting for you."

Any last traces of David's smile are gone now as he awkwardly makes his way out of the kitchen past Robin. It's not as though they're being particularly secretive about anything, but with the lack of details in Regina's message and the careful way Robin had spoken, David thinks that the discussion he's about to have -- whatever it's about -- isn't going to be easy. It doesn't sound particularly good either, if Robin's exhaustion and melancholy are anything to go by, but even as he climbs the stairs, David can't quite put his finger on what it is exactly that Regina wants his help with.

The door to the guest bedroom is open as he approaches it, but it's not until he reaches the doorway that he finds Regina settled comfortably on the bed, knees bent to prop up a sketchbook in her lap as she drags a pencil across the page. She doesn't look up when he leans against the doorframe, so he opens with, "Your other half said I'd find you here."

Her pencil pauses halfway across the page as she glances up at him and arches an eyebrow. "Isn't that description more suited for you and your wife," she quips, "what with the half a heart and all?"

He's unable to bite back the grin that spreads across his face. "Fair point," he chuckles, pushing himself off of the doorjamb and taking a step in the room. "Can I sit?" he asks, gesturing toward the edge of the bed.

Regina shrugs and turns her attention back to her sketchbook. "I'm not stopping you."

"I'd hope not," he offers, trying to gauge her mood, "seeing as how you're the one who wants me here."

Again, her pencil pauses over the page. "Wanting and asking are not the same thing," she throws back.

Annoyance flares in his gut -- it's brief and mild, but it's there -- and David steels himself for things to escalate quickly into an argument. She's already a little defensive and combative, well beyond prickly, and David finds himself feeling fatigue settle in before they've even really begun. "Okay, Regina," he sighs, sinking down onto the mattress at the foot of the bed, "are we going to play this game for a while, or are you going to tell me why I'm really here?"

She's quiet for a minute, still paused in her movements, before she lets out a breath and glances back up at him. "You've never been the patient sort of person, have you?" Another barb to distract him, but it's less defensive this time, so David merely raises his eyebrows and levels her with an expectant look. She holds his gaze for half a moment longer before heaving a great sigh and looking back down at the page. "It was Henry's idea."

It doesn't escape his notice that it's still a non-answer, but it still catches David off guard, and he knows he fails at masking his surprise. "Really?" he pries. "Henry told you to ask me for help?"

"Yes, well, of the members of this family, Henry is usually the one with most sensible ideas," she says. "He suggested it last week after --"

"Last week?" David interrupts. "If he suggested it last week, why didn't you just talk to me at dinner on Friday night?"

"Because that's not what dinner was _about_ ," she say shortly, and he doesn't miss the way the fingers of her free hand brush against the small swell of her belly.

He remembers the way Snow's arms had wrapped around Regina almost immediately after the announcement Friday night, thinks of the sonogram on display on the refrigerator downstairs, and part of him understands. "Okay," he allows, "but that still doesn't explain why you waited this long to come to me."

Regina takes a measured breath, and she's trying, he thinks, to be patient with him. "I needed time to prepare."

" _Prepare_?" David echoes, a little disbelieving. "What did you have to do, take notes or something?" Regina tenses a little before glancing over at the nightstand, and David's eyes follow the movement of her hands as she swaps out the sketchbook for a leather-bound journal. She doesn't speak, though, just sets the journal in her lap and smooths her hands over the cover. "That's -- oh _wow_ ," he says, unable to help laughing a little. "I mean, I was joking, Regina, but you actually... took notes."

Regina works her jaw a little, grips the edges of the journal tight, and very deliberately doesn't meet his eyes. "If you're just going to sit there and make fun of me, David --"

"I'm not making fun of you," he interjects quickly. "I mean, this is very... _you_ , but it's also just _me_. I find it kind of hard to believe that you'd need to take notes to have a normal conversation with me. Sure, things aren't always... _easy_ between us, but we've buried the hatchet at this point, haven't we?"

"Of course we have," she dismisses, voice sounding strained as her hands grip the journal a little harder. "That's not why I did it, David, there is nothing _normal_ about --" She cuts herself off abruptly with a sharp gasp as magic sparks out of her left hand, and David is shifting away from her in surprise before he can so much as think about it. There's a long moment of silence between them as they both eye her hand in clear apprehension, waiting for it to happen again, and... nothing. Regina takes a breath to steady herself, first, hands relaxing around the edges of the journal, and after a moment's hesitation, David follows suit. There's something almost... gentle in her eyes when she looks at him, and her voice is quiet when she speaks. "I'm sorry," she says. "That wasn't -- I don't have full control over that. I didn't mean to startle you."

Slowly, he shifts back into his previous spot on the bed. "Is that was this is about -- your magic?" he ventures. "Because you know, Regina, that I don't really have --"

"No," she dismisses. "It's not mine, anyway, it's..." Here, she tapers off for a minute before glancing down at her belly and gesturing vaguely, but David can grasp her meaning easily enough.

Her child has magic.

"Oh," he manages, because he's really not all that surprised, given her family history. "So, that night you showed up in our apartment, that was..." It's his turn to taper off now, though, once Regina's gaze shifts back down to the journal in her lap. David narrows his eyes a little and watches as her fingers flex around the edges of the journal. "Is this about that night?"

"It's... part of it," she admits.

"I don't understand," he says, and it's his turn to try being a little patient with her. "If this isn't about the whole magic thing, then what else happened that night that -- _oh_ ," he breathes, the memory coming back to him in pieces. Regina shifts in her spot, clearly uncomfortable, but she doesn't look back up at him, and David remembers. He remembers the way she'd curled against Snow that night, remembers the admission Snow had made on Regina's behalf and the urgent way he'd reached for his phone. "The Netherworld," he says. "You told Mary Margaret that's where you'd been, and then we all thought that Henry --"

"Henry hasn't been going back," she says, a quick assurance that catches him off guard but doesn't deter him.

"But _you_ have," he presses, and it's more of a question than he thinks it should be.

Regina still doesn't look up at him. "You know I have," she answers quietly.

"Well, yeah," he agrees, patience starting to wear a little thin, "because you told us so that night."

Regina's hands still around the edge of the journal, nose wrinkled and eyes narrowed before she looks up at him. There's something... curious in her eyes as she studies him for a moment before she asks, "You didn't know before then?"

"No," David answers slowly, more than a little confused. "I mean, I guess I could have made the assumption before that night, since you were under a sleeping curse this summer, but I didn't really _know_ until that night." The curiosity in her expression gives way to surprise, now, her face relaxing a bit at the confirmation. "Am I... missing something here?" David sighs, knowing he sounds exasperated.

Regina holds his gaze for half a moment longer before she relaxes against the pillows propped up behind her. "I... went to your wife for help when all of this started," she confesses. "Granted, the particulars of what I needed help with back then are not the same as what I need help with now, but... that was _weeks_ ago." A beat, and then, "I can't believe she didn't say anything to you about it."

Annoyance flares up and forces words out of him before he can stop himself. "Can't believe she managed to keep a secret, you mean."

But the jab doesn't even land with Regina -- or if it does, she doesn't really seem to care. She doesn't seem quite as surprised as she was a moment ago; instead, there's warmth in her expression, a sort of... fondness in her eyes. "I... didn't ask her to keep it a secret, technically. She did that on her own."

There's a biting remark ready and waiting on David's tongue, but Regina looks away from him again before he can speak. She drops her gaze back down to the journal in her lap and smooths her hands over the cover again, and David wonders, for a moment, just how long it's going to take to pull real information out of her. He is, admittedly, not the world's most patient person, but Regina's never been all that forthcoming when it comes to stuff like this, either. It still amazes him at times to see how different Regina can be with Snow, how quickly his wife can manage to get to the root of Regina's issues without creating more along the way.

And he remembers, then, watching them talk on the steps at home the morning after they'd found Regina in their bathroom. He remembers the moment of tension just before, remembers the way Regina had sunken down on the steps and clammed up. He remembers the easy way Snow had approached her, remembers his wife being able to coax Regina into talking when she looked like she'd really rather be doing anything but. This feels much the same, now, Regina quiet and anxious, and for someone who went out of her way to ask for help, she's clinging to that journal awfully tight.

She prepared for this.

"Maybe," David ventures, softening a bit, "she realized how difficult it was for you to talk about." A pause, and then, "I'm guessing it still is."

Regina's hands still over the journal again, eyes slipping shut as she exhales heavily, but her shoulders sag with weight, almost like she's relieved. "You really have no idea," she sighs. She takes a breath -- in, out, shaky and uneven -- before she glances sideways at him, barely meeting his gaze. Her eyes are shining a little and it's the closest, he thinks, that she'll allow herself to come to crying openly in front of him again. "I had a version of this conversation with Robin this morning as _practice_ for this, and I could _barely_ get through that," she laughs, dry and humorless.

David's lips twist into a half-smile, sympathetic. "Hence the popovers," he says, echoing Robin's earlier explanation. "And the notes." He follows her gaze back down to the journal one last time and watches as her fingertips trace the edges before an idea occurs to him. "Here," he offers, holding his hand out expectantly as he shifts a little closer to her. "Why don't I just... read through them on my own first?"

Again, her hands still in their movement. "They won't make any sense that way."

"Okay," David sighs, doing his best to be patient. "So... give me an introduction," he suggests. "Tell me what I need to know so I can understand the notes, and then if I have any questions, I'll ask them when I'm done reading." She doesn't answer him for a moment, but she doesn't look quite as hesitant as he'd been expecting when she looks back up at him again. It's as close to an agreement as he thinks he's going to get out of her, so he glances pointedly at the journal and then down at his open hand, waiting.

Regina takes a deep breath and slowly shifts the journal into his hand.

He's careful not to pull it away from her too quickly, aware of her eyes following his movement as he sets the journal down in his own lap. She's much quicker to withdraw, hands wringing anxiously as her gaze lingers on the journal a moment longer. She rubs her thumb across the width of her left palm, and it takes David a moment to realize that she's trying not to let the magic spark out of control again.

He needs to get her talking.

"Tell me what I need to know."

That seems to recapture her attention, but the breath she takes before meeting his eyes is careful and controlled. "You know I started going back to the Netherworld at the beginning of the month," she says. David nods and tries to bite back any remark about that being well-established at this point. "What you don't know -- what hardly anyone knows -- is that I haven't been going to the Red Room."

David blinks in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Regina says slowly, "that the room you've all talked about -- the one with the heavy curtains and the wildfires, the one where Henry got those burns -- is not a room I've been to."

David narrows his eyes, confused. "Well, where else could you have gone, then? The only other place we know of is --"

"-- the Hall of Mirrors."

David raises his eyebrows. " _That's_ where you've been going?" Regina hesitates for a moment, swallowing hard before she nods in confirmation. "I don't -- that's not _normal_ , is it?" he asks, fumbling over his words while he tries to pull his thoughts together.

Regina looks almost... annoyed at the question, but she only breaks eye contact for a second before she answers. "No," she sighs, and she sounds _tired_. "Nothing about this is normal. And before you ask, no, I don't know _why_ I've been going there instead of the Red Room like I'm supposed to."

David hesitates for a moment and casts a glance at the journal in his lap. "Is that what this is about?" he guesses. "You've been cataloguing your visits to the Netherworld because you want me to help you figure out why you're going to the Hall of Mirrors?"

Regina rubs her thumb roughly against the skin of her palm. "That may very well be what you end up doing, but... no, that's not my priority at the moment."

"Then what is?"

There's something very deliberate in the way she looks into his eyes this time, and he can hear more than see how close she is to tears now, voice thick and uneven when she speaks. "I need to get out," she says. "I have... _tried_ finding a way to get out of that place, but nothing I've done has worked so far. I'm stuck in there. I'm --"

 _Trapped_ , David's mind supplies, but Regina doesn't say it out loud. He takes a moment to let it sink in, what it is that she wants, but it doesn't make him any less bewildered. "Okay, let me get this straight," he says carefully, moving the journal off of his lap so he can turn to face her properly. "You're stuck in a room full of mirrors," he continues, and it takes everything in him not to comment on the sheer irony of Regina being adverse to mirrors. "And you want my help finding a way out of this place because you would _prefer_ being stuck in a room full of fire?"

Regina's answer is swift. "Yes," she says plainly.

He doesn't bother masking his incredulity. " _Why_?"

Regina eyes the journal meaningfully, her eyes wet when she looks back up at him. "You'll understand soon enough."

His eyes fall to the journal resting between them.

Whatever is in there must be _bad_.

"Why me?" he asks after a moment. "Why did Henry tell you to come to me for help?"

"You're the only one who's done it," she explains. "You're the only one who had to find a way out of the Hall of Mirrors to get to the Red Room."

The memory of it settles into the forefront of his mind, fuzzy around the edges, but he only dwells on it for a moment before his brow wrinkles in confusion. "That doesn't make sense," he argues, looking back up at her. "If all you wanted was to know how I got out of that place, then why would you go to the trouble of taking notes?" he asks, gesturing to the journal. "Why would you force yourself to struggle through practicing talking about all of this if all you needed was an exit strategy?"

Regina lets out a noise of derision and glances up at the ceiling. "Because," she says, an edge to her voice, "it can't be as simple as using the same method you did, David. My life doesn't work that way."

"So you do need my help understanding it," he guesses, trying to follow her reasoning.

"If that's what it takes to get out of there, then yes," she agrees. "And in order for that to happen, you have to know what I've been experiencing. You have to know what I've tried." She pauses for a moment and glances back down at the journal before reaching for it; this time, she offers it to him freely. "I figured you deserved to know what I'm up against."

She makes it sound like a war.

The journal feels heavier in his hands now than it did before.

David traces the embossing on the cover of the journal, thinking. "Henry pushed you to talk to me," he says. "Does he know what's in here?"

"Bits and pieces," she admits, sounding a little reluctant. "Nothing too specific. Just enough to give me some perspective -- to point me in the right direction."

Clearly, Henry thinks that David is the right direction, but there's still doubt picking at David's mind. "But... Robin knows," he ventures. "Robin knows what's in here." He looks back up at Regina, knowing he needs to tread carefully. "Is there... some reason he can't help you understand what's been going on?"

Regina exhales, soft and slow, and he sees the same look in her eyes he'd seen with Robin earlier. "Robin has been… _wonderful_ with how supportive he’s been, and it’s better now that he knows everything, but -- He’s never been there, and honestly? He can't possibly be objective about this," she argues, and again, David doesn't miss the way her hand settles over her stomach. "And... it's our souls that travel to the Netherworld, David," she adds, and there's something almost gentle in her reminder. "Robin is --"

"-- your soulmate," David supplies, gaining a little clarity. "You're... trying to protect him."

Something shifts in Regina's eyes at that. "Yes," she admits, and she almost sounds relieved. "He doesn't need to be exposed to any of that any more than he already has been, especially... after last night," she says, voice tapering off as she looks down at her lap. She starts wringing her hands again, much more roughly than before, the lines of her shoulders rigid and tense. Whatever happened last night must have been really, really bad; it's probably why she called out sick from work today, why she asked him to come over on such short notice.

She's... scared, he realizes.

Of what, exactly, he still doesn't have any idea, but he thinks he understands, now, why she'd written it all down for him. It's probably easier this way. "Okay," he agrees finally, surprised at how quiet his own voice has become. "I'll, um -- is there anything else I should know, before I start?" he asks, waving the journal a little. Regina bites her lip, clearly deliberating for a moment before she shakes her head. "Alright, then just... give me a little while to read and I'll... see what I can do to help."

He can see some of the tension melt out of Regina's shoulders at the promise, her eyes a little clearer. "I appreciate it," she says quietly.

"In the meantime," he ventures, "maybe you should go back to... multi-tasking," he suggests, glancing down pointedly at where she's still wringing her hands together. She's quick to stop fidgeting and inhales sharply at being caught, but she doesn't seem to dwell on it long. Instead, she turns her attention back to the sketchbook she'd set aside earlier, and there's something almost... wanting in the way her lips curve when she reaches for it again.

Satisfied that Regina's properly distracted for the time being, David settles in to get more comfortable on the bed before turning his attention back to the journal in his hands and opening it to the first page.

The first thing he notices as he does an initial perusal of the pages is that it very much _is_ as if she took notes on her own dreams. There’s a sketch on the first page -- a map to indicate the circle that the mirrors form with a few labels here and there -- but otherwise the pages are painted in Regina’s elegant script. The pages are broken up into sections, entries dated and tabbed with small, colored post-its to keep things... _correlated_ , he realizes. It takes him a few minutes of flipping back and forth to figure out what each color represents: blue, for her experiences in the Netherworld; yellow, for what happened when she woke up; and pink, for anything important in the interim. Some of the entries are even formatted the same: short paragraphs of summary followed by bullet lists, the occasional sub-point cluttered with afterthoughts added in with arrows.

It’s all kind of… _hyper_ organized, and there’s a part of him that can’t help but smile a little as he casts a sidelong glance in Regina’s direction. It’s _very_ like her, but it’s also a bit… much, her anxiety evident across the pages. She looks a little more relaxed now as she curls up on her side of the bed and sketches in silence, the scratch of her pencil surprisingly smooth as she drags the tip across the page again and again. It’s a good distraction for her, he thinks, an even trade for the time being while he sorts his way through her memories.

David turns his attention back to the journal and flips back to the beginning; his smile, however, fades when he begins to read.

It opens with an empty reflection.

Slowly, he reads his way through the early entries, puzzled by the accounts of Rumplestiltskin and Zelena and Regina’s father alike. There’s a hastily scribbled set of notes -- _living vs. dead, hallucinations vs. reality, sleeping curse victims???_ \-- that tells him Regina’s tried making some sense of these encounters. She seems to think there’s a distinct possibility that the people she’s seen in the Hall of Mirrors could be real, and with the end of the second blue entry -- _blood on my hands_ \-- David feels a chill run up his spine.

It doesn’t go away the longer he reads, wraps around him and coils in his gut as he follows the path her child’s magic has left behind. It’s in a small red arrow next to the shield she’d used against Rumplestiltskin, in the wake of Emma’s beck and call and the mirror Regina had shattered upon awakening. He feels it in his chest when he reads about her fight with Robin on the pier, ache cracking into the space between his lungs. He thinks he can understand her fear, in the beginning, and he sees reason in the pink-tabbed entries where she’d sought out a way to _cope_.

She’d gone to Snow for help.

He allows himself a small smile when he gets to that page and runs his thumb along the words _lit candles to keep the nightmares away_.

That’s just the first week.

And then he turns to the page that harbors an empty cradle, and David finds himself filled with something not unlike dread. “Henry,” he murmurs, hardly aware that he’s said it aloud. “You saw… Henry.”

Regina is _quiet_ next to him, the rhythmic sound of her pencil against paper suddenly absent. “Yes,” she answers finally, voice low, “but it wasn’t really him.”

“He hasn’t been going back,” David murmurs, an echo of Regina’s earlier words, but the twist in his gut won’t go away. His fingers trace over a few select lines, lingering over _crack in the floor_ and _torch as a tool_ before he finds the courage to speak up again. “You were right, by the way,” he admits, and he wishes she’d been wrong. “I don’t think it’s as simple as you using the same methods I did to get out of there.”

“The torches?” she guesses.

“Yeah.”

“It wasn’t the only thing I tried,” she says, and it almost sounds like _she’s_ trying to make _him_ feel better about it. “Keep reading.”

Still, it’s enough to alleviate the ball of tension in his gut at least a little, but his sense of dread is quickly replaced with confusion when he tabs from blue to yellow. Her account of waking up after seeing Henry in the Hall of Mirrors -- after losing him _to_ one of the mirrors -- is much shorter than he’d been expecting, once he’d put the pieces together. That had been the night they’d found her in their bathroom, full of tearful apologies and magic sparking out of control. He hadn’t spoken to Regina much, that morning, and she’d been unsurprisingly withdrawn the entire ride home. But he remembers what Snow had told him, that Regina’s memory of that night had several gaps, and he sees them here now, in the brevity of these particular pages. “Was there --” He hesitates, trying to form the question carefully. “Did you… want to know more about what happened that night?” he ventures, glancing over at her.

Regina meets his gaze easily, but there’s something almost aching in her expression. “No,” she assures him, shaking her head. “I know all I need to. I know why I was there,” she says, and even without it being written explicitly across the page, David thinks he does, too.

She felt guilty.

The Evil Queen, it seems, has some regrets, after all.

_Do you know what I regret most?_

They both hold the gaze for just a moment longer, and then they’re each returning back to their respective pages. Regina sketches, and David reads.

The next entry is tabbed in pink and dated with Henry’s birthday, but there’s little in these pages that he doesn’t already know. He knows she’d gone to Blue for help with her magic (or what she thought was her magic, at the time); it had been his wife’s suggestion, after all. He knows that the magic isn’t her own, although judging by this entry, it seems it took a little while longer for Regina to figure that out herself. The biggest takeaway he finds in Regina’s description about her tense meeting with Blue is the apparent shift in what Regina had been seeking help with.

She didn’t just want to cope; she wanted _control_.

Given the nature of her visits to the Hall of Mirrors and her appearance in their bathroom, David can’t say he blames her. But the next entry is dated two days later and tabbed in blue, and at the very top is Regina’s ultimate goal.

_Get out._

Beneath, he finds a muddled mess of two columns -- the frantic failures with Jefferson’s hat and commitment to controlling the magic she couldn’t quite understand at the time. None of the notes are particularly clear, here; there are arrows looped around the sides and words crammed into small spaces. David spends several minutes trying to decipher them to no avail, but there’s a clean line in the center of the page to break it in half. At the bottom is only one word.

 _Cora_.

The pages that follow are wrinkled in places where he thinks they had once been damp, and Regina’s handwriting is markedly different in these pages -- straight and sharp, like she was writing much more quickly. At the things Regina experienced at the hands of her mother, David finds himself thoroughly unsurprised but no less disturbed. In the end, it’s one line toward the bottom of a page that forces him to stop and linger a little longer, and he can almost _hear_ the mocking lilt of Cora’s voice at her words.

_Perhaps you merely destroy everything you touch._

David curls his fingers away from the page, but he’s spared the impending spike of irrational anger by a gentle knock on the bedroom door. He looks up in tandem with Regina to find Robin lingering in the doorway, plate and mug in hand. “I haven’t interrupted, have I?”

David remembers Robin’s admission in the kitchen earlier -- _Regina feels this is something she should do on her own_ \-- and glances over at her to gauge her reaction. She doesn’t seem all that bothered by Robin’s appearance, though, just shakes her head and sets the sketchbook aside. “David’s reading for now,” she explains. “We’ll talk more once he’s done.”

It’s only then that David sees the clock on the nightstand and notices the time. They’ve been up here for almost an hour. “I’m a slow reader,” he admits.

Robin shakes his head and sets the plate and mug on the nightstand next to Regina. “Take all the time you need,” he insists, perching himself on the edge of the bed next to her. There’s something exceedingly gentle in the way he reaches for Regina’s hands, and David finds himself looking away to give them at least a little bit of privacy. “I brought you something to eat,” Robin murmurs, his words obviously directed at Regina. “You hardly touched your breakfast, and you said that Doctor Whale wanted you to --”

“I know,” Regina interjects, but she doesn’t sound as annoyed as David would expect her to be. “This morning was…” She tapers off, and when neither of them speaks for a moment, David chances a glance back in their direction.

He’s startled when he sees one of Robin’s sleeves pushed back, revealing a bandage wrapped carefully around his forearm. Regina’s fingers are tracing over the material delicately, almost like she’s afraid to hurt him, and David finds his curiosity piqued again. “What happened to your arm?”

Regina starts a little and inhales sharply, but it’s Robin who meets David’s gaze briefly before glancing down at the open journal in David’s lap. “Last night and this morning,” Robin ventures tentatively, clearly still speaking to Regina, “did you --”

“It’s in there,” she answers, quick and quiet. “The notes aren’t as neat, but it’s all in there.” Regina’s fingers curl away from Robin’s arm, but he catches her hand with his before she can pull too far away. And it’s silly, really, that David would be uncomfortable at the sight of them like this -- they’re only holding hands -- but there is something remarkably _intimate_ about the way they look into each other’s eyes that makes him feel like he’s intruding on something intensely private. He wonders, now, if this is how Regina used to feel watching him and Snow -- when she wasn’t preoccupied with trying to kill them, anyway.

No wonder she looked away.

He forces himself to look back down at the journal when Robin leans in a little closer to her, and other than the soft smack of lips that David can’t really ignore, the kiss they share is for them and them alone.

The slight edge in Regina’s voice is gone when she speaks again, a hint of warmth in its place. “Go reschedule your appointments for the day,” she urges. “I promise I’ll eat something.”

“The whole plate,” Robin argues, bartering with her, and David bites back a smile as he unsuccessfully tries to focus on the pages in front of him.

“You piled enough on that plate to feed a small army,” Regina counters. “I’m only eating for two.”

“And two pieces of toast is a proper breakfast for no one.”

Regina huffs out a breath in clear exasperation, and in his peripheral vision, David can see her work her jaw a little before looking over at him. “Were you this bad when your wife was pregnant?”

David hesitates for a minute, unsure if he really wants to get roped into the middle of this, but there’s a spark in their eyes that sets him at ease. This seems… normal to them, almost as if they like the challenge.

They’re… flirting.

Their arguments in the previous missing year make so much more sense now.

David shakes his head a little, trying to push the thought from his mind. “Two pieces of toast isn’t a meal,” he says, agreeing with Robin, “and my wife is not _nearly_ as stubborn as you are.”

Regina arches an eyebrow as she levels him with a glare. “That’s… debatable,” she settles on, surprising him.

“Two against one,” Robin points out, recapturing her attention. Regina turns the glare on him now, but there’s no heat or malice behind it. She opens her mouth -- probably to protest -- but before she can speak, her stomach growls _loudly_ in answer. Robin casts a glance down at the small swell of her belly before flicking his gaze back up, lips quirking up into a smile. “Three against one.”

Regina only holds out a minute longer. “Fine,” she sighs, rolling her eyes rather dramatically. David can tell that she’s biting back a smile, though, when she deliberately meets Robin’s eyes again. “The whole plate.”

“Good,” Robin murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead. “I’m just downstairs if you need me.”

Regina shakes her head as he rises to his feet again, but there’s fondness in her expression and a warmth to her smile as she watches him leave. It’s the most… relaxed David thinks he’s seen Regina all morning, and he wonders, for a moment, if she’s made the right call. “Look,” he ventures, choosing his words carefully, “I get wanting to do this on your own, but… that doesn’t mean you have to. Are you sure you don’t want him to stick around for the rest of this?”

Regina looks over and studies him for a moment before answering. “When all of this started,” she begins, and it’s her turn, he thinks, to choose her words carefully now, “and I went to Mary Margaret for help, she said that her visits to the Netherworld were easier to bear because she knew that you’d be there for her when she woke up. She said you helped anchor her to reality.”

“And Robin’s been your anchor,” David supplies. “Yeah, I know, I’m well past that part,” he says, gesturing to the journal.

“Then you know how difficult this has been for him,” she reminds him, voice sounding a little strained. “You know what he’s afraid of,” she says, and David looks back down at the page in front of him.

_Robin is afraid of losing me._

David sucks in a breath. “Yes,” he agrees, shifting uncomfortably before looking at her again. “But that doesn’t explain why you wouldn’t want him here for this. He’s already sat through this conversation with you at least once. And when he was in the room just now, it was the most at ease I’ve seen you all morning.”

Regina swallows audibly. “I know,” she allows. “I’m trying to preserve that.”

David narrows his eyes in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

For the first time in over a half hour, Regina eyes the journal in David’s hands. “You will,” she says. “Keep reading.”

He barely manages to bite back a noise of frustration, patience wearing thin again, but he knows how difficult this is for her. The answers are in the pages; all he has to do is keep reading. So it’s with the smallest of sighs that David lets the argument go and turns his attention back to the journal in front of him, eyes scanning the page to try and pick up where he left off. But he barely has the chance to get through more than half a sentence before his own stomach growls in hunger and _damn_ , those popovers still smell really good. He keeps his eyes trained on the page, though, determined not to ask for one. The food is another distraction for Regina, he thinks, one that he doesn’t particularly want to take from her, but he can also read between the lines. Neither of them had to be explicit about it for David to realize that Regina is probably underweight at this point in her pregnancy. He probably could’ve figured that one out on his own, honestly, given how _small_ she is --

And then there’s a popover being held directly under his nose, and Regina lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Here,” she offers. “Just don’t get crumbs on the bed.”

David licks his lips, tempted, but he shifts his gaze over to Regina. “You said you’d eat the whole plate.”

She rolls her eyes. “One popover is not the end of the world, David. There’s an entire basket downstairs if the baby decides it wants more.”

His resolve only holds out a little longer, and he smiles, guilty, before taking the popover from her hand. “Thanks.” Regina barely _hmm_ s in reply, her attention diverted as she reaches for the sketchbook again to work while she eats. She’s not as relaxed as she was a few minutes ago, when Robin had been in the room with them, but she seems calm enough to focus on what’s in front of her for the time being. Satisfied, David takes a careful bite of the _oh god, heavenly_ popover and turns his attention back to the journal.

He thinks Regina would have thought better about the timing of offering him food if she’d known where he was at in her notes. There’s not much left to her encounter with her mother, just more of the same, but he wrinkles his nose at the notes under the next two tabs. They’re shorter, these ones -- bullets about how sick she’d been, the marks on her wrists, the way she’d put the pieces together about her pregnancy. There’s a few sentences written sideways on the page, connecting the two tabs, and David chews the last few bites of his popover thoughtfully as he tries to make sense of the fight she’d had with Robin that morning. He lingers on _made up @ Granny’s_ for a moment, and he wonders, idly, if maybe what happened last night and this morning was similar to that.

And then David turns the page, and he nearly chokes as he swallows the last bite down.

She’d seen Snow.

He’s not sure he’s really ready for this -- he’s not sure he ever _could_ be, honestly -- but he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the words inked across the pages. He can practically see the bird carcasses in his mind’s eye, can almost hear the damning whisper of _mirror, mirror, on the wall_. There’s something in Regina’s description of this encounter that is frighteningly _haunting_ in all of its details: Snow curled around the cradle, bleeding; the child staggering forward with dead eyes; the bandit with victory in her eyes and an apple poised between her fingers. Regina’s guilt and regret have bled into the pages in ink, the word _PUNISHMENT_ written in red at the bottom of the page, circled and underlined over and over again and all she wanted to do was _wake up_. The handwriting changes, after that, and it’s Robin who had filled in the gaps for her, Robin who had been marked by her magic, Robin who had anchored her back to reality when she hadn’t been breathing and David’s chest feels _tight_ \--

“David?”

He inhales sharply and glances over at her, startled. She’s holding another popover in offering, the rest of her plate empty and _how long had he been reading this time_? “Did you want the last one?” she asks, clearly not for the first time. “I’m full -- I don’t think I could eat another bite.”

His stomach turns over at the thought. “No thanks,” he answers, tongue tacky and dry in his mouth. “I think I’ve lost my appetite.”

She’s quiet for a minute as she studies him again, but it doesn’t take her long to figure it out. “Snow?”

“Yeah,” he affirms, barely trusting himself to speak. “I --” He clamps his lips shut tight, unsure where to even start. He’s not done reading; there are still several pages left, and he hasn’t even touched whatever happened last night and this morning. But this -- this is too important to leave until the end. “This happened a _week_ ago,” he points out, not bothering to mask his incredulity. “You invited us over for dinner not three days ago and you didn’t say a _word_ about any of this.”

Regina narrows her eyes a little as she sets the popover back on the plate. “I already told you why --”

“I know, I know,” David interjects with a sigh, running his fingers through his hair. “I just -- If it had been me, Regina, I probably would’ve acted differently around her. And you didn’t.”

Something in Regina’s expression softens, at that, and she takes a minute to swap the plate for the mug before settling back against the pillows again. She’s quiet for a long moment, gaze falling to the contents of her drink. “You know -- you know that I’ve been having trouble with discerning whether or not something is a… hallucination,” she says, lips twisting into a small scowl at the word.

David nods, curious to see where she’s going with this. “It’s harder when they’re dead,” he suggests, because he’s been able to garner that much from her notes, at least. “Or if they’re victims of a sleeping curse like you and me.”

Regina takes a measured breath, clearly trying not to let her anxiety get the best of her. “Yes,” she agrees, “but I’ve managed to tell the difference with some of them.” A pause, and then her eyes meet his again, gaze level and even. “With Mary Mar -- with _Snow_ ,” she amends, “I never once thought she was real.”

He hesitates for a second, deliberating as the bright red ink on the page _screams_ at him. “You know that was never what she wanted,” he ventures, knowing he might be treading on thin ice. “She never wanted… _vengence_. She never wanted to hurt you. She just… wanted you to stop being on the offensive all the time. She wanted you to be the person you were when she met you.”

“I know,” Regina says gently. “We -- we’ve come too far, I think, for me to ever believe she could become what she once was. I know her, David, and she is always moving forward.”

“And this is about your past.”

Regina tenses a little, but she doesn’t look away. “Yes. And I,” she says, resting a hand gently over her belly, “would like to look forward.”

“Is that what dinner Friday night was about?” he guesses. “Looking forward?”

Her gaze falls to the sketchbook resting between them, her hand rubbing idly along the swell of her belly. “It’s about... hope,” she says, so quietly that he almost doesn’t hear her. “And _all_ that place does, David, is take every last shred of hope left and _twist it_ into something _dark_.”

David holds her gaze for a moment longer before looking back down at the journal in his lap, exhaling slowly. “Fire’s starting not to sound all that bad,” he murmurs.

“Keep reading,” she instructs, voice sounding a little hoarse. “It’s not over,” she says, and it could not be clearer that Regina is _beyond_ ready for this whole thing to be over.

The last pink tab in the journal is only a single page worth of notes, but it’s the first page where David thinks he sees answers instead of questions. Regina seems to have found at least some clarity from talking to Robin and Henry last week. Beneath Henry’s name is a bullet list comprised of words and phrases -- things like _temptation to dark_ or _attempt to instill doubt_ \-- and it’s clear that Regina knows what these… hallucinations are trying to do her. She just doesn’t know _why_ , and she doesn’t know how to get away from them.

In the bottom right hand corner of the page, David finds a single sentence in Henry’s slanted print, the period replaced with a penciled-in heart.

 _You could be a good mom in your sleep_.

The page is wrinkled here, too.

When he turns the page, the blue and yellow post-its have been stuck to the page at awkward angles, and he’s unprepared for the absolute _mess_ that these last set of notes make up. She’d started, it seems, to write this set of entries down as if it were an actual diary, sentences full and complete. But it looks like she’d gone off track somewhere; any lists are crammed into the small spaces of the margins, and nothing is as carefully grouped together like in previous entries. Her handwriting is sloppier in the later pages, ink smudged across the page, and David’s vision blurs a little as he tries to make out some of the words upon first glance. He blinks rapidly and shakes his head, thumbing his way back to the first page in the set of entries, and starts from the beginning.

And -- _oh_.

 _Robin_.

It takes David a long time to work his way through the last of these pages -- her horrific experience in the Hall of Mirrors the night before, her disorientation when she’d woken up, the way she’d hurt Robin this morning without meaning to -- but by the end of them, David is able to conclude three things. One, the Hall of Mirrors will _not_ let Regina move forward. Two, she is at risk of losing her anchor even as she clings to it tighter. And three, with the angry, red imprint of the word _PUNISHMENT_ written just pages before, there is a part of David that wonders if maybe Regina thinks that she deserves this.

 _No_.

It’s a knee-jerk reaction -- an anxious, intuitive _no_ \-- that has David snapping the journal shut and looking over at Regina with a heavy ache in his chest. It says a lot about how far they’ve come, he thinks, that his gut reaction to her troubles and her pain is that she doesn’t actually deserve it, but there’s more to it than that. He finally understands why Regina was so afraid to come forward with all of this.

It’s _intimate_.

David isn’t sure he’d ever be able to reveal so much to _anyone_ , not even Snow. This isn’t just talking about fears or bad dreams -- these are _haunting_ , real and _visceral_ insights into Regina’s psyche. If he ever had doubts or wondered about how she could ever live with herself after everything she ever did as the Evil Queen, he certainly has his answers now; there are times, it seems, when maybe she actually can’t.

And if Regina _trusts him_ enough with this, well, then maybe she sees him as family, too.

She seems to sense his eyes on her, then, because she shifts her gaze from the sketchbook in her lap to the journal in his. She tenses visibly at seeing it closed, fingers fidgeting restlessly with the edges of the pages she’s been working on. It takes him a minute to realize that she’s waiting for him say something -- to react to the last set of pages, to offer up a suggestion or solution, anything really. But it’s so _much_ \-- too much, really -- and the ache in his chest makes it hard for him to think about doing anything other than trying to make this _better_. “Last night,” he says finally, “you… _know_ that wasn’t real, right?”

Regina exhales heavily, and she’s slow in her movement as she turns briefly to set the sketchbook on the nightstand. There’s something very… careful in the way she turns back toward him, like she’s trying extra hard to keep her composure. But she’s struggling, he can tell, her anxiety back in full force as she takes a deep breath and smooths her palms over her thighs. “I know.”

David sets the journal aside and narrows his eyes, trying to get a better read on her. “I just… think it’s important for you to remember.”

Her exhale is sharp this time, her eyes a little cold when she looks at him. “That is _all_ I have done,” she says, her voice dangerously low. “I have spent every waking moment since then trying _desperately_ to remember that, David. It doesn’t change the fact that it _felt_ real, to me.”

“I know,” he says quickly, trying to placate her. “And I know that makes it harder to distinguish the difference. This morning was proof enough of that.” He hesitates for a minute, debating. “But it wasn’t --”

“Oh my god,” she mutters, shifting to the edge of the bed and pushing herself to her feet. She runs a hand through her hair and takes another breath before deigning to look at him again. “No, it wasn’t real,” she agrees, and there’s a sharp edge to her voice that has him sitting up a little straighter to steel himself. “That doesn’t change the fact that I couldn’t trust him when I woke up. It doesn’t change the fact that I couldn’t go back to sleep. And it doesn’t change the fact that I _hurt him_ this morning, David.”

“I _know_ ,” David says thinly, trying to be patient with her. “But you said it yourself -- you need him here for you when you wake up. You need that anchor to reality. If you’re going to be able to trust him in that from here on out, then knowing that what you hallucinated last night wasn’t real is --”

“That’s not the point!” she says emphatically, anchoring her hands on her hips. “It _could have been_ , don’t you get that? Nearly every single one of those hallucinations was of someone who could easily have found their way into the Netherworld, David. And my mother _did_. What she did to me in there was _real_.”

“Okay,” he bites out, “but that doesn’t necessarily mean that everyone or everything _will be_ \--”

“They’re just getting _worse_ ,” she argues, pacing the length of the room. She’s hardly listening to him at this point, he thinks. “Every visit to that place just keeps getting darker and I’m not going to just sit here and wait for another one of the those visions to become _real_ , not after what happened last night.” There’s more -- she keeps talking, can’t seem to _stop_ \-- but David hardly hears it. Watching Regina start to spiral right now is like being transfixed by her notes again -- shadows creeping in around the edges of his vision as his chest begins to grow tight and --

“Okay, okay, just stop for a minute,” David interrupts, forcing air back into his lungs. Regina pauses in her pacing and levels him with a _look_ , but David remains undeterred. “Maybe,” he ventures carefully, “we should… take a step back. You’re too focused on all of the worst pieces of this and what that might mean for you down the road. And -- I get why your focus is there, Regina, I do, but there are too many pieces to this whole thing for that to do anything but make things worse. Taking a step back might help you see the bigger picture. It’ll give you some perspective, and that can --”

“-- change things,” Regina supplies softly. She doesn’t remove her hands from her waist, but she’s relaxed her shoulders a little, so the fight, he thinks, isn’t gone but at least redirected. She’s quiet for a minute, jaw working a little before she asks, “What exactly does taking a step back entail, to you?”

“Let’s start at the beginning,” he suggests, gesturing to the journal. “I think you may have been onto something, back then.”

Regina narrows her eyes in clear confusion, but she sinks down at the foot of the bed opposite him. “David, the beginning of this is when I knew the least and understood even less. In the beginning, I thought they were dreams.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he explains, reaching for the journal and turning past the first few pages. “Look, here -- when you asked Mary Margaret for help. This is what I’m talking about.”

Regina’s gaze lingers on the open page, eyes weighted with exhaustion. “David,” she sighs, patience clearly wearing thin again, “you’ve read every single one of those pages. You know that what I sought back then isn’t what I need right now. Coping isn’t enough.”

“I know,” David says simply, “but maybe you should be asking the same questions.”

She blinks back over at him, clearly caught off guard. “The same questions?”

“Well, sort of,” he amends, setting the journal down between them. “You asked about her coping mechanisms, sure, but if you take a step back and look at it a little differently, you asked her about what things were like at that time. And she pointed you in the right direction.”

“She pointed me to Aurora,” Regina argues, “whom I didn’t even end up speaking to about any of this.”

“She told you to use everyone’s experiences in order to find a common thread,” he counters, pushing the journal a little closer toward her. “But this isn’t about coping, anymore -- it’s about finding the why.”

Understanding dawns in Regina’s eyes, but he can still see her hesitation. She reaches out a hand and traces her fingertips around the edges of the pages, clearly thinking. “And you have a way to do that,” she assumes.

“I have a place to start,” David offers, lips quirking into a small smile. There’s one last beat of hesitation as Regina regards the pages with lingering skepticism, but with a sharp inhale, she pulls her hand away and nods her permission to continue. Encouraged, David reaches for the journal again and flips forward several pages, searching for a name. “Do you remember,” he asks, “when Mary Margaret and Emma were stuck in the Enchanted Forest, and Henry started going to the Red Room?”

“Of course I remember,” she says, voice low. “My son woke up with burns on his arm.”

David pauses briefly in his perusal of the pages to glance up at her. “So did Aurora,” he reminds her. “They were the reason we were able to bridge the gap to begin with.”

“I was there, David,” Regina drawls. “How is any of this relevant?”

David rolls his eyes but refrains from quipping back, focusing back on the pages instead. “When they got back, Mary Margaret told me what things were like over there while they were trying to find a way home. Aurora was under a lot of stress. The wraith had taken Phillip’s soul, they were trekking back and forth across the Enchanted Forest on a dangerous mission --” He stops when he finally finds the page he’s looking for, turning it to display for Regina. “From the sound of this, it seems like that didn’t stop once Emma and Mary Margaret came home.”

Regina narrows her eyes as she glances over the page, but her expression clears quickly. “It was the same this past summer,” she murmurs, taking the journal from him. “When -- it’s not in here, but with Maleficent’s return, and Phillip’s death --”

“-- she started going back?” David guesses.

Regina nods, fingers dancing delicately across the page. “Mulan didn’t divulge that, exactly, but it was definitely implied.”

David hesitates for a moment, ducking his head to try and get a better read on her. “I think… it’s safe to say that you’ve been under a lot of stress, too, Regina,” he ventures. “Between Marian’s return and Maleficent and the curse and what happened with Gold -- not to mention all of the stuff that came before -- it’d be weird if you _weren’t_ under a fair amount of stress before all of this started.”

Regina huffs out a breath. “That’s probably the understatement of the year,” she mutters. A beat, and then, “It was the same, with Henry,” she says, and her voice is _quiet_. “He’d just lost half of his family.”

“And the other half was trying to help him through that,” he reminds her, not wanting her to focus on the negative. She flicks her gaze up at that and flashes him the barest of smiles, small and bright. He returns the smile with ease, bolstered, and presses forward. “I tried doing the same with Mary Margaret when she started going back.”

“You lit candles,” Regina deadpans, a hint of teasing in her voice as her eyes drift to a spot behind him.

He turns briefly to follow her gaze, eyes settling on a pair of candles on display atop the dresser. “Everything is clearer in hindsight,” he dismisses, turning back around to face her. “We both thought they were nightmares, Regina. I figured they were brought on by stress. She thought about you constantly. Between that and trying to take the kingdom back and planning a wedding, it wasn’t an unreasonable thing to assume, at the time. I did what I could to try and help her.”

“I know,” she says, and there is something almost… kind in her tone. She hesitates for a moment, studying him, before she asks, “And you? What was it like, for you?”

David blinks a little, surprised, and this time he’s the one who averts his gaze back down to the journal. It’s not… unreasonable for Regina to ask this of him, he knows, especially considering how much she’s shared with him this morning. But if he hadn’t already understood how _difficult_ it was for Regina to share something this personal with him, he definitely does now. This -- his returns to the Netherworld after the sleeping curse -- is something he hasn’t shared with anyone before, not even Snow. His anxiety about it is long gone -- has been for over a year -- but the memory of it is like a phantom ache in his chest, stealing the breath from his lungs. He’d kept so _much_ from her, during those months, had felt so _alone_ in his fear, and for the first time all morning, David finds that he really _understands_ how Regina has been feeling all month long.

Neither of them is alone, now.

He takes a breath to steady himself but can’t quite bring himself to look back up at her just yet. “Neverland,” he answers quietly. “Neverland was when it started. After -- after the Dreamshade.”

“That’s a couple of weeks after your wife woke you,” she points out.

“For you it was over a month,” he counters, looking back up at her. “I don’t think it’s about time. I think it’s about --”

“-- stress,” she supplies. “I think that first week after I woke up was more stressful, honestly, although I suppose one could argue that maybe all of that stress just… festered for a while.” David _hmm_ s his assent but doesn’t comment further. “So,” she sighs, “Neverland.”

“Neverland,” he affirms, sighing heavily himself. “Pan had Henry, we had no way of getting off the island, and… I thought I was dying.”

“You _were_ dying,” she argues, but he doesn’t miss the way her hand rubs at the side of her neck, narrowly avoiding the column of her throat. “Was that, um -- was that the only time?” she asks, clearing her throat a little. “A minute ago, you said Neverland was when it started.”

She’s changing the subject -- he _knows_ she is -- but he figures she deserves this one. “It stopped for a while,” he explains, shifting a little on the bed. “Once we got Henry back and I had the cure for Dreamshade, the visits to the Red Room stopped. But they started up again, when… we were in the Enchanted Forest last year.”

She inclines her head a little, eyes lingering as she studies him and tries to put the pieces together, and it takes more effort than he’s proud of not to squirm under her gaze. “Is that… why you went on your little adventure in the forest in the middle of the night?” she asks. “Because you couldn’t sleep?”

“That was definitely part of it,” he admits, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. He’s quiet for a minute before he moves up on the bed, reclining comfortably against the pillows on his side. It’s not the first time he’s owned up to his fear in front of Regina, and it’s not like she won’t understand, but there’s danger, he thinks, in making her own fear more palpable. “I had actual nightmares, too,” he says. “They started around the time… Snow told me she was pregnant again.”

He’s thoroughly unsurprised at the way Regina’s hand comes up to rest over her belly. “And you were afraid,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.

Ache carves out a space in David’s chest. “I was afraid,” he confirms. “I had trouble sleeping. Being in that castle at times was just… stifling, but I couldn’t go very far because of all of the flying monkeys your sister had patrolling the area outside of the protection spell. So I ended up retreating to the stables sometimes for a drink,” he confesses, and guilt _gnaws_ at his gut. “I’m sure you know what that’s like.”

Something shifts in Regina’s eyes, a mirror of the ache threatening to eat him alive, but there’s something else there, too -- something more. “I do. Or I did, anyway.” She pauses for a moment before shifting up a little on the bed herself, dragging the journal along with her. “So how did you end up in the forest, then?” she inquires. “The tower you found Rapunzel in was south of our border. That’s King Richard’s jurisdiction, why would you venture into Sherwood --” Light dawns in Regina’s eyes in the space of heartbeat, and there’s something comfortingly unguarded in the way a small smile breaks its way onto her face. “Robin.”

David returns the smile in kind. “He happened upon me in the stables one day, told me about Nightroot. He said it might help conquer my fear.”

Regina’s smile falters a little, light dimming in her eyes. “He never mentioned that.”

“All of his information was secondhand,” he reasons. “He said he didn’t dabble in magic unless he had to.” He pauses, briefly, before his lips twist up into a grin. “I guess that’s changed.” It works; Regina’s smile blossoms again, color creeping into her cheeks as she averts her gaze down to where her hand is still anchored over her belly. Pride flares in his chest, a temporary balm to the cold cut of his ache, and he only just bites back a laugh at the realization that he’s honestly _happy_ at the fact that he can manage to pull a smile out of her. He allows himself the moment, revels in the quiet and the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, before pressing on. “After Rapunzel, I came clean to Snow about what was really going on. The visits to the Netherworld stopped, after that.”

Her smile dims a little, but it’s different this time. She’s thinking -- he can tell -- and she’s quiet for a minute before she looks back up at him, eyes narrowed a bit in confused concentration. “And you never went back?” she pries. “Not even when we turned up back here missing an entire year’s worth of memories?”

David shakes his head, shrugging. “Not even then,” he confirms, “although -- I guess, in hindsight…”

“Yes,” she agrees faintly. They both sit in silence for a few long moments, Regina’s gaze dropping to the journal once more, and it’s only when she picks it up that she speaks again. “Not that all of this hasn’t been very… illuminating,” she says slowly, “but how exactly does all of that help with this?” she asks, waving the journal a little.

David takes a breath to steady himself and sits up a little straighter, angling his body toward hers. “Well, to be fair,” he starts, “it does answer at least part of one of the questions. It gives you a piece of the why.” A beat of hesitation, then, knowing he’s venturing into dangerous territory, but he nods at the journal anyway. He’s come this far; there’s no sense in stopping now. “Those… visions,” he settles on, remembering the way her lips had twisted into a frown at the use of hallucinations, “seem to give you the rest of the missing pieces to that particular question. Or most of them, anyway.”

It’s just shy of too much; she inhales sharply and drops the journal into her lap, fingers flexing anxiously as she closes her eyes. “Where are you going with this, David?”

He’s unable to help the impatient noise that makes it past his lips, but he doesn’t let his frustration show more than that. This is what he’s here to do -- to keep her focused and help her find a solution to her problem -- and he can’t do that if lets the tension fester between them.

He’s not giving up on her.

“Okay, look, Regina,” he sighs, shifting closer to her and plucking the journal from her lap. She blinks her eyes open, clearly caught off guard, but she doesn’t move away from him. “You’re too close to this. Taking a step back gave you part of an answer. It gave you a common thread. We can use that as a basis for comparison. But if you want more answers -- if you want something that might provide you with a _solution_ \-- then I think you need to go back even farther.”

Regina’s brow knits in apparent confusion. “That doesn’t make any sense,” she argues. “David, I wrote down every experience I’ve had in that place since I started going back.”

“I know. I think we need to go back to before all of this,” he explains, tapping the cover of the journal. “We’ve all been to the Hall of Mirrors, Regina. You’re the only one who’s gone _back_. You’re the only one who can use that first time as a basis for comparison. I mean, I can’t imagine that it was like this when you were under the sleeping curse,” he argues.

“Well, no,” she says, “of course not.”

“Then something _changed_ , Regina,” he emphasizes. “And in addition to trying to figure out why you’re stuck there and how to get out, maybe this is a question you need to answer, too. Maybe this is a place you find a solution.”

“Or maybe,” she sighs, “we just end up talking in circles.” It’s her turn to move to recline against the pillows on her side of the bed, now, huffing in clear exasperation as she stares up at the ceiling and folds her hands over her belly. She’s growing irritable and impatient, though David can’t say he totally blames her for the latter. He understands now why she’d gotten straight to the point earlier about what it was that she needed, has a sense of the desperation she must’ve felt this morning after her confrontation with Robin in the kitchen. She wants answers -- _fast_ \-- and it’s clearly _more_ than difficult for her to talk about any of this in details, hence the notes --

Inspiration strikes, in that moment, and David takes a breath to let patience settle back into his lungs. “It was dark, for me,” he says quietly, dropping his gaze down to the journal in his hand. “When I first went under the curse, it was so dark that I was disoriented for a few minutes. I could barely see the firelight from one of the torches. I was afraid to take a step forward because I didn’t know what might happen. And when I finally got the torch in my hand, I got spooked by my own reflection.”

Regina’s looking at him when he glances back up. “That sounds almost… normal,” she says, but there’s a hint of gratitude in her voice that tells him she understands what he’d been trying to do for her.

But the time for pride, he knows, is long gone, and again he finds himself reading between the lines. "I take it your curse was a little different, then.”

Regina sighs again, but it’s less out of exasperation this time, he thinks. He watches as she looks back up at the ceiling and runs her fingers through her hair, nose wrinkled as she tries to put the pieces together. “Sort of? I think everything has _looked_ the same, at least. If I could have moved, I’m sure my experience under the curse wouldn’t have been all that different from yours.”

“Wait,” David interjects slowly, eyes narrowing as he shifts a little closer to her. “What do you mean _if_ you could have moved?”

“I was… chained to the floor,” she explains, sounding _beyond_ uncomfortable at the admission. “I couldn’t even sit up, much less get up and walk around.” A beat and then she’s glancing over at him, eyebrows arched in understanding. “Although, I guess, in hindsight --”

“-- it definitely explains the whole why you went back part of things,” David sighs, rubbing tiredly at the back of his neck. “Though I think trying to figure out why you were bound there in the first place may be a question we have to leave unanswered. Was that the first thing you noticed -- the… restraints?” he pries.

“No,” she answers slowly, brow furrowed and eyes a bit empty as she tries to recall the memory. “I remember -- I remember my face. I remember opening my eyes and seeing my face. It took me a minute to realize it was my reflection in a mirror. The… restraints were the last thing I noticed.”

“You saw your reflection while you were under the curse?”

She blinks back into focus and meets his eyes, confusion evident in her expression. “Yes. Why, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” he answers distractedly, flipping the journal open again and thumbing through the pages to try and find what he’s looking for. “But the thing is --” He stops and smooths his hand over the second page of Regina’s journal, heart beating a little out of time. He exhales, slow and shaky and uneven, and holds the page up on display. “When you went back, _you didn’t_. It’s literally the first thing you wrote down. And you were trying to figure out _why_ when --”

“-- Rumplestiltskin showed up,” she supplies softly. She’s quiet for a moment before drawing a breath and sitting up straight again, hands reaching for the journal gently. There’s something almost… careful in the way her eyes scan the page, fingertips just shy of touching it. “I don’t -- I got distracted,” she murmurs.

David takes a breath to steady himself and scoots a little closer to her. He reaches out a hand tentatively, making sure she meets his eyes before he leans in and flips through to another page. “You mentioned it again,” he points out, trying not to rush through this. “Here -- and again, in this one,” he adds, turning to a later entry. “You seemed to be aware of it, but like you said, you were --”

“-- distracted,” she finishes, flipping back and forth between the entries he’s shown her.

“I don’t blame you,” he offers, leaning back a little to give her some space. “What you’ve been seeing, Regina -- those kinds of things sort of _demand_ your attention. It’s hard to see past them.”

Regina looks over at him at that, and he thinks he can see the beginnings of clarity dawning in her eyes. “You think that was on purpose.”

“I think the Hall of Mirrors isn’t designed to let people hide from themselves,” he replies, unable to bite back a slight laugh. He leans in briefly, just to flip back to the first page of the journal, and watches as Regina takes in the map she’d drawn. “It’s a circle of mirrors.”

“I don’t understand,” she argues, glancing over at him. “If the whole point is to get me to see my reflection, then why bother with the distractions?”

“Because they’re not distractions,” he explains, and his heart is _pounding_ in his chest as the pieces fall into place for him. He’s midway through the rush of adrenaline in his veins before he even realizes it’s there, anticipation coiling in his gut. “They’re sort of… tricks, I guess -- games to try and force your hand. And the longer it takes, the worse the games get.”

“I’m not following.”

“Regina, think about what that place has been doing to you,” he presses, gently prying the journal out of her hands. “You started out not being able to see your own reflection, and all that place has done is try to _make you_ see by taking every part of you and showing you the _worst_ versions of them. But that’s not what’s holding you back -- it’s _fear_.”

Regina inhales shakily through her nose, jaw set and eyes a little cold. “You can’t honestly be sitting here telling me _not to be afraid_.”

It’s the thinnest ice he’s treaded on today, he thinks; she’s reached the end of her rope, patience long gone. “No,” he insists, hoping to curb her temper a little, “but you have to _face it_.”

Her eyes soften a little, but she won’t be subdued -- not yet. “I’m not _hiding_ , David,” she says thinly.

His face crumples a bit with a broken smile, shoulders falling in resignation. He may have to incur her wrath today, after all, but it’s a risk -- an absolute risk -- he knows he needs to take. “You’re _running away_ ,” he counters gently. “Or you’re trying to, at least. You want to move forward, Regina, but I don’t think this place is going to let you until you can see yourself again. And I’m willing to bet that’s not going to happen until you actually face what it is that you’re afraid of. And that’s -- believe me, I _know_ how hard that is, Regina. I really do.”

There’s something akin to… melancholy in her eyes, then, and still she doesn’t snap. “You don’t know fear, David,” she says, her voice a low whisper, “not like I do.”

“ _Yes_ , I do,” he grits out, jaw working in irritation. He breaks eye contact for a minute to pull himself together, flipping through the pages until he finds the blue tabbed entry he’s looking for. He’s unapologetic about the way he shoves it back into her hands, fingers tapping against her mother’s name. “You are afraid she’s right,” he insists firmly, and Regina won’t meet his eyes. “You are afraid that you destroy everything you touch, especially -- god, _especially_ after what you did to Robin this morning. And you are afraid that you are more like her than you ever wanted to be. You’re afraid of failing. I know what that feels like.”

She does deign to glance up at him at that, and he finds himself surprised at how _mild_ the skepticism in her expression is. She… believes him -- or wants to, at least -- and it’s enough to redirect the fight in him, this time. It’s his job to keep her focused, but this is necessary -- a little give and take to keep the peace and move forward. So it’s with a heavy sigh that David leans back and rests his weight on his hands, resigned to giving her another piece of his own story. “My father was an alcoholic,” he says, and he doesn’t miss the way Regina’s breath catches in her chest at the confession. “No matter how hard he tried, he just… couldn’t always be there for me the way a parent should. And I… never really had the chance to raise Emma. I know, I know, different circumstances,” he dismisses, not wanting to dwell on it for fear of making Regina feel worse than she already does. “When Snow told me she was pregnant last year, _all_ I could think about was every last way I could possibly fail. You wanted to know why I was in Sherwood Forest that night, Regina, you wanted to know why I was desperate enough to go after that Nightroot, well.”

“You were afraid,” she says, not for the first time, and her voice is so exceedingly _kind_ that it _pulls_ at his heart.

He sits up properly again and moves in a little closer, an invisible thread tethered between them. “Talking to Snow helped,” he admits, “but when we turned up here again, I didn’t remember any of it. And we had practically no time to prepare for the baby at that point, I just --” He exhales heavily, suddenly _exhausted_ , and for a moment, all he can do is marvel at Regina’s resilience. “Fear has this funny way of making darkness creep in around the edges,” he explains, noting the way recognition flashes in her eyes. “In the end, the only way I could overcome that fear was by facing it. Zelena forced my hand. And _you_ ,” he adds, gently resting a hand on her arm, “were the one who helped me realize what I’d done. When we face our deepest fears, our true courage comes out, remember?”

Regina barks out a wet laugh, surprising him, but it’s a brief moment of brightness that quickly gives way to ache. He can see it in the way her chin trembles, the way tears well up and brim and gather on her lashes. She looks away from him abruptly, jaw set and eyes closed as she pinches the bridge of her nose, but she doesn’t pull away from his touch. He’s pushed maybe a little too far, he thinks, but not to the point of breaking her open. So he gives her the moment of composure she’s clearly seeking and focuses on the steady sweep of his thumb over the skin of her arm, a gentle, lulling back and forth he hopes she finds comforting. She speaks before he thinks either of them is really ready for it, though, her voice thick and uneven. “You know, the sheer _irony_ of this is really quite astounding.”

“What do you mean?”

She sniffs a little, hand falling away from her face as she turns to look at him, but she’s no more composed than she was a minute ago. “When I first met your wife, I rescued her from a runaway horse. Once she was safe, the first thing she said to me was that she would never ride again. Do you know what _I_ said?”

A smile creeps in around the edges of his mouth; the story is at least somewhat familiar. He can imagine where this is going, but he thinks it might do her some good to say it out loud. “What?”

“I told her the only way to overcome fears was to face them,” she says, and she’s laughing but there’s obvious pain around the edges of her smile. “And right now, I wouldn’t even be sitting here trying to do the same thing if either of you had ever really given up on me.”

Ache breaks open in his chest at that. It’s far more honest than he would ever expect her to be with him -- with either of them, really -- but it occurs to him now that she was right earlier. There is nothing _normal_ about any of this, the way the thread that binds their family frays and fixes itself over and over and over again. But she _needs_ them right now -- maybe more than she ever has -- and it’s all David can do to let warmth blossom into his smile. “I know you, Regina. Maybe not as well as others -- maybe not as well as my wife or Robin or Henry -- but I know you better than you think I do. And I know that whatever fear is keeping you in there, whatever’s holding you back -- you can overcome it,” he assures her. “You’ll find a way.”

“How can you be certain of that?”

“Because that’s what this family does,” he says, and Regina moves her arm to grip his hand with her own and squeeze tight. She’s shaking a little -- he can see it in her arms and her shoulders -- but it’s not a bad thing, he thinks. He doesn’t expect her fear to just disappear overnight. “Look,” he says, “I think -- I think this could be a good place to start. If you can find your reflection again, I wouldn’t be surprised if the rest of the pieces start to fall into place. I know it’s not exactly a very… complete plan, but --”

“No, it’s --” She stops and adjusts her grip on his hand, relaxing a little. “On the surface, it might seem a little superficial and overly simplistic, but I think -- I think you’re probably right.”

“It’s… a place to start,” he reiterates, shifting a little uncomfortably next to her. “I think it’ll help, Regina, but it doesn’t eliminate the risks. Those games -- the hallucinations and the marks on your wrists -- are still things that might happen. If you want them to stop -- this is the only idea I’ve got right now.”

“And I think you’re onto something,” she assures him. She hesitates for a second, drops her gaze down to their hands and runs her thumb over his knuckles before she continues. “When Henry started going back to the Red Room, I asked Gold for help. And he gave Henry that --”

“-- that pendant, yeah,” he says, remembering the way it had glowed in his hand. “The glass that held the potion broke while I was in there.”

“It’s the potion that makes the difference, I think,” she muses. “Gold said it would help Henry control the journey to the Netherworld. And once Henry could do that, then the fear would… stop.” Regina looks back up at him, lips curving into a small smile. “Like I said, I think you’re onto something. This gives me some direction, at least, which is more than what I’ve had.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” he says, barely biting back a chuckle, “but you should still probably have a backup plan -- in case things _do_ get worse.”

As expected, Regina’s smile falters a little, but the thought of last night’s horrors doesn’t seem to be making her as uncomfortable as it was earlier. “And I suppose you have an idea for that.”

“You’re not going to like it.”

“At this point, I am willing to try almost anything,” she sighs. “Let’s hear it.”

“I think… you should talk to Gold,” he says, and he’s fully expecting the way she inhales sharply at the suggestion. “I know, I know, you don’t want to, you’ve been avoiding him, this goes against the whole breaking bonds with him thing, but --” David shifts a little closer and squeezes her hand reassuringly. “Gold probably knows more about that place than any of us put together. He can probably point you in the right direction. And even if he can’t, he can probably make another one of those pendants with the potion or something like it. That’ll be useful if you -- when you manage to make it to the Red Room. Like it or not, he might actually be able to help, Regina.”

She shakes her head, clearly exasperated, but the corner of her mouth twitches upward like she’s trying not to smile, and there’s resignation in her eyes. “You Charmings always think everything’s so simple,” she sighs. “Now I know where Henry gets it from.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a smart kid,” David remarks, grinning.

Regina laughs again, the sound much lighter than before, but it’s still brief. She sobers up quickly and pulls her hand out of his grasp, and this time when she sighs, he hears the resignation in her tone. “I will… talk to Gold, at least,” she agrees, hedging. “I don’t -- I’m not sure when I’ll do it, exactly, but I will at least go and talk to him. I can promise you that much.” A beat as she glances back down at the open journal in her lap, and her voice is quiet again when she speaks. “I can promise Henry that much.”

“Don’t,” he says, prompting her to look up at him, startled. “It shouldn’t be about that. Don’t make that promise for me or Henry or even Robin. You’ve put a lot of energy into trying to protect everyone else throughout all of this -- and I get that, Regina, I really do. I would’ve done the same. But at some point, you can’t protect anyone else if you don’t take care of yourself first. So if you’re going to ask for help, then do it for you, Regina. It’s your mind, your soul. There’s nothing wrong with putting yourself first right now, all things considered.”

“I put myself first for a long time, David,” she reminds him, and there’s something _aching_ in her smile. “All it did was cause other people pain.”

David levels her with a look. “And now you’ve gone so far in the opposite direction that _you’re_ the one in pain. You can do both, Regina. There’s a happy medium in there somewhere.” There’s a flash of something in Regina’s eyes at that, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared, and she offers up no reply.

Instead, she shifts her attention down to the journal in her lap again, hesitating for half a moment before closing it shut and smoothing her hands over the cover. She’s still reasonably composed, all things considered, but her anxiety has found its way to the surface again, evident in the wrinkle of her brow and the dark circles under her eyes and the tension in her hands. Even with a better understanding of what’s going on and solid strategy and backup plan, she’s clearly still worried about what’s to come. He doesn’t blame her, not at all, but there’s something unsettling about the look in her eyes.

And all at once, he remembers seeing the same look in her eyes this past summer, when she’d sunken down on the bottom of the staircase after learning that Maleficent had kidnapped Henry.

He feels a pang of guilt, at that, chest feeling heavy and tight with its weight. But it’s weight they can’t afford, not if they’re going to keep moving forward, so David swallows hard and clears his throat, trying desperately to find the right words. “For what it’s worth, Regina,” he murmurs, “I _am_ sorry.”

Her hands still over the cover of the journal, her eyes narrowed in confusion when she looks back up at him. “Why are you sorry?”

He shifts uncomfortably next to her but doesn’t move away or break eye contact, knowing he needs to see this through. “It’s… at least partially my fault you’re in this mess to begin with,” he explains, nodding at the journal. “You would never have needed to take that curse if she hadn’t taken Henry, and that wouldn’t have happened if I had just --”

“ _David_ ,” Regina says firmly, reaching for his hand again and gripping tight. “None of what’s happened is your fault. Maleficent is the one who took Henry. She’s the one who insisted on revenge for what _I_ did to her. And I’m the one who agreed to take the curse, David. That’s how it works -- you _know_ that’s how it works. And you are not any more responsible for what happened to Henry than Mulan is for Aurora or _Roland_ is for Robin.”

Something unfurls in his chest then, prompting a laugh out of him. There _is_ something a little silly in this circular blame-sharing, but he can’t help but feel like he’d actually be _doing_ something if she allowed him to shoulder some of the burden. This isn’t something he can fight, not really; he learned that the hard way with Snow. And even after all of this talking he’s a little worried that he hasn’t actually helped Regina at all. “Well, when you put it that way, I guess it does sound a little ridiculous,” he admits instead. The least he can do is not add to her burden.

“Exactly,” she agrees, squeezing his hand one last time before letting go. He’s not sure who the gesture is supposed to reassure more -- him or her. “If I learned anything this summer, it was to make sure the right people were held accountable for something -- even if that means taking some of the blame myself.”

David’s lips twist into a smile. “You sound like you’ve given this lecture before.”

“Henry _and_ Aurora,” she affirms, smile not quite reaching her eyes. “They deserved a chance at grace.”

He hesitates briefly, debating. Maybe he can’t take part of her burden, but maybe he can convince her to set some of it down. After a moment,he ventures, “And… maybe now you deserve one, too?”

Regina follows his gaze down to the journal one last time, and something sparks in her eyes. It’s an expression he recognizes, one that once would have had him worried about the tides of war or the welfare of his people, but now? Now it sends a faint flush across her cheeks, and where he once would have been worried, it now gives him hope that she’ll fight this. “Maybe,” she agrees faintly. She’s quiet for a minute before she looks back up at him, and her smile is the warmest it’s been all morning. It’s warm and it’s _Regina_ , the spark in her eyes giving away the hint of determination coming to life in the wake of a challenge. “Thank you,” she says. “I know I didn’t exactly make this easy for you, but I _do_ appreciate the help.”

The fact that he’s managed to get the words _thank you_ out of her is probably on a list of actual miracles somewhere, but he chooses not to press his luck by commenting on it. “Anytime,” he promises, and that, he knows, is one that he can keep.

Regina is family, after all.

She doesn’t say anything further and he wonders, for a moment, if he should just take his leave or ask if she needs anything else first. She seems content for the moment, her gaze on the journal once more, so instead, he glances around the room again, wondering if this is the room they’ve chosen to turn into the nursery. He isn’t sure which way the window is facing, but if his mental layout of the house is correct, then it’s close enough to the master bedroom to make things easy. Slowly, David turns, taking in the size and wondering how they’ll rearrange things when they redecorate, and then his gaze settles back on the dresser against the wall. He blinks as he takes note of the little knick-knacks on the surface, an idea forming. “Regina,” he asks, “do you have any matches?”

“Downstairs, I think,” she answers, sounding a little confused. “Why?”

“Because,” he says, smiling as he turns back around to face her, “I’m going to light a candle.”

* * * * *


	8. October 31, 2013

_Regina is cold._

_It’s the first thing she notices as consciousness settles in around the edges of her mind. The glass against her skin is cool to touch, her breath seizing up like ice in her lungs. She opens her eyes against the cold snap, shivering as she slowly pushes herself into a sitting position, tucking her numb toes beneath her legs for a moment to try and force feeling back into them. She clutches the material of her sleep sweater tight around the curve of her belly, desperate for warmth, but even with fire burning bright above and below, there is none to be found._

_The Hall of Mirrors has never felt like this before, and Regina finds it… odd, to say the least. Every torch is still lit around the circle of mirrors, and as far as she knows, the Red Room is still beneath her. It doesn’t make sense for the hall to be this chilly, and yet here she sits, curled in on herself and watching her breath spiral like smoke in front of her. The hall looks a little different this time around, though, and she’s distracted for a minute by the absence of foliage and ash and broken glass, the cradle nowhere in sight. The corpses are gone -- both those of the birds and of Marian -- and the breath in her lungs feels a little less painful at the realization. The jagged fracture on the floor still remains, however, and somewhere in her, hope blossoms and burns._

_Maybe this is the mark she’s left behind._

_Regina smiles._

_But then her eyes land on the mirror in front of her, and still she cannot see her reflection._

_Slowly, she exhales and closes her eyes, trying to recall some of David’s advice. He had been sure they weren’t distractions but games -- tricks. And the games that the Hall of Mirrors plays with her mind are deliberate. Every single event -- every alteration, every hallucination, every sound, every smell -- is an orchestrated attempt at getting her to pay attention. She thinks that may be what these things -- the overall state of cleanliness, the sudden drop of the temperature of the room -- are now, an effort to force her hand. For a moment, she can only think of what it may lead to -- who she might see next -- and that’s when it really sinks in._

_She is meant to see herself._

_Her heart skips a beat in anxiety at the thought of the last time she’d seen her reflection in here. She’d been caught off guard by it then, the antiquated memory of her in her wedding dress startling enough to pull magic out of her unexpectedly. Except… it hadn’t been unexpected, not entirely. She’d been sitting much like she is now, eyes closed and hyper-focused, trying to call her own magic forth in an effort to make Jefferson’s hat work. Her child’s magic had presented itself first -- not that she’d been aware of it at the time -- and at the sight of her own reflection, her own magic had immediately followed. And Regina remembers, then, the careful way she had switched hands -- the balance she’d been desperate to strike._

_She is both light and dark: this, she knows._

_Now she needs to see._

_Shoulders squared and back straight, Regina tries to ignore the way her hands shake from the cold and takes a measured breath before opening her eyes once more._

_The Evil Queen smiles down at her._

_And just like that, Regina’s hands stop shaking. There’s something oddly… comforting about seeing herself like this, and she finds it surprisingly easy to start to push herself to her feet in order to look at herself in the mirror more properly._

_“I was wondering how long it’d take for you to wake up.”_

_Regina freezes midway through rising and looks up, apprehensive. She hadn’t expected her reflection to speak of its own volition like this, and she wonders, for a moment, if this -- if she -- is as much of a vision as those who came before._

_She wonders if this is still a game and if it is, she has no choice, really, but to play._

_She’s slow to finish rising, careful in her study of the Evil Queen in the mirror. Regina is less guarded than the woman in the mirror, but she also knows what she’d been capable of as the Evil Queen. Darkness has a funny way of making a person… sharper in observation, better at finding weakness. She knows that’s what the woman in the mirror is preying upon -- every last insecurity that Regina has -- and all at once, the pieces fall into place._

_The Evil Queen embodies fear._

_David had been right._

_She cannot run away anymore._

_Regina draws herself up to her full height and takes a breath to steady herself, resisting the urge to anchor a hand over her middle; she doesn’t want to bring the baby into this anymore than she already has. But she also knows that provoking the Evil Queen is probably unavoidable, and if she has to do it, she’d rather get it over with than drag it out. So it’s with a sense of already worn patience that Regina does her best to keep her voice level and even and says, “I’m not afraid of you.”_

_The Evil Queen levels her with a look. “Well, we both know that’s not true,” she drawls, sounding almost bored. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, and let’s face it, dear, we both know I’m not going anywhere.”_

_The muscles in Regina’s hand spasm a little in an aborted attempt to curl her fingers into a fist. She forces herself to take a breath -- in, out -- and works her jaw in aggravation. Just being around the Evil Queen again is enough to make her throat burn and her temper flare, and she tries very hard to remember that this is a game. The Hall of Mirrors is still trying to force her hand; Regina has to push back. “What do you want?” she asks sharply._

_The Evil Queen arches an eyebrow, amused. “I want the same thing you do,” she says simply. “I want you gone.”_

_Regina knows she fails at masking her surprise. “What?”_

_The Evil Queen sighs and leans against the edge of the mirror, hand anchored on her hip. “Look, I know you’re just as tired of this little charade as I am.”_

_It’s Regina’s turn to arch an eyebrow. “Really? Of the two of us, I’m the one performing the charade?”_

_“We both know you don’t have it in you to be a hero, darling,” the Evil Queen says, voice dripping with false sincerity. Her reflection -- the vision in the mirror flickers, just for a split second, but in the Evil Queen, Regina sees shades of the darkness of a dragon. “You don’t have what it takes. You wouldn’t still be in here if you did.”_

_Regina’s chest tightens, but she swallows her fire down and forces herself not to run. This is just a game. “And of the two of us,” Regina points out, “I’m the only one who can leave. That’s why I’m out here and you’re trapped in there.” Another flicker and this time the Evil Queen’s skin glitters and glistens with the mark of a crocodile, but Regina feels safe on this side of the glass where she didn’t before. “You need me,” she realizes. “You need me to get out.”_

_Something flashes in the Evil Queen’s eyes -- fear masquerading as anger, Regina thinks (knows, she knows this, knows every wall she built and maintained and watched crumble as the Evil Queen). But it’s gone almost as soon as it appeared, and the Evil Queen looks far too confident for Regina’s comfort as she pushes herself off of the edge of the mirror and takes an impossible step closer._

_Regina’s wrists ache._

_“And you fail to see the point,” the Evil Queen taunts, grin glittering. “You don’t get out of here unless you take me with you. You,” she says pointedly, sounding almost delighted at the prospect, “need me.”_

_And all at once, Regina understands: if this is a game, someone is meant to win. The Evil Queen clearly thinks it should be -- is going to be -- her. She’s been clawing her way back into Regina’s skin in pieces -- the fire in her hands and the tempered anger in her throat -- but she hasn’t found her way to the surface quite yet. Regina’s come too far to let that happen -- come too far to lose the life and love she’s fought so hard to preserve -- but she remembers the way the fragments of the Evil Queen have come to her aid in recent months. She’d been present in the way Regina had gripped David’s arm in anguish and anger this summer, in the steps she’d taken toward crippling Rumplestiltskin last month. The Evil Queen came through for her in the fight against Cora and in the refusal of Snow’s memory, and once again, Regina is reminded of what shadows of darkness can do for her._

_Darkness can be good when it comes from light._

_And Regina’s skin itches, but breath burns its way into her lungs. “Maybe I do,” she breathes, and this time, she’s the one who takes a step toward the mirror. “Maybe I do need you.” The Evil Queen’s grin grows with each step Regina takes toward the mirror, and Regina takes each new step carefully, aware of her moves in this game. The Evil Queen thinks she’s giving up. Regina can see it in her eyes and uses it to her own advantage, coming to a stop just in front of the mirror. She’s a little more hesitant, here, just at the precipice of danger, and she wonders, for a moment, if the mirror will give way like so many of them have before._

_This is a risk she has to take._

_Slowly, she reaches up her left hand first, ready to press it against the glass experimentally, but she pauses just shy of touching it when the Evil Queen inhales sharply and visibly recoils. It’s brief and quiet, barely there, but Regina is too aware of herself to let it escape her notice. It’s the most unguarded the Evil Queen has been since her sudden appearance in the hall, and it’s not lost on Regina at all that the look in her eyes is absolute fear._

_The Evil Queen is afraid of her._

_Regina’s gaze shifts back down to her left hand, the memory of her desperate attempt to strike a balance with her magic once again fresh in her mind. Her child’s magic had come forth from this hand -- has always come from this hand -- and in spite of its wild, uncontrolled nature, everything about her child’s magic is light. But… Regina has also produced light magic on her own long before her child was ever conceived, and even without her heart beating in her chest, she remembers what it was like to win a witch fight._

_A purveyor of the strongest light magic, Glinda had said, and Regina is light, too._

_She shifts her gaze over to her right hand, and she is dark._

_The sense of victory in her veins feels different now than it did when the Dark Curse had been descending upon them all, and it’s with a thinly veiled smile that Regina brings up both hands against the glass of the mirror. The glass shimmers and the Evil Queen sucks in a breath, clearly waiting to see which hand Regina will offer her -- whether she’ll win or lose._

_It’s time to fight fire with fire._

_With deliberate and calculated precision, Regina sinks her right hand through the glass and straight into the Evil Queen’s chest, hand enclosing around her heart. There’s a moment of delay between the Evil Queen’s pained gasp and Regina’s own, the jolting spasm racing like a current along Regina’s arm, and still Regina doesn’t let go. She answers every one of the Evil Queen’s gasps for air with a measured breath of her own and takes great care not to squeeze too hard. “And here’s the point you’re missing,” Regina rasps, lungs full of fire. “You don’t exist without me. You want out of here, you answer to me. Understood?”_

_The fear in the Evil Queen’s eyes shifts into resignation, and just like that, she’s lost the game._

_And still, Regina tries to force her hand. “I said,” she bites out pointedly, ignoring the pain in her own chest as she grips the Evil Queen’s heart a little tighter, “am I understood?”_

_“Yes,” the Evil Queen grits out, and Regina knows her well enough to know when she’s telling the truth. She’s less gentle than she probably should be when she pulls her hand out of the Evil Queen’s chest since she feels every phantom ache in her own -- particularly when she considers that she has a second life inside of her. But the Evil Queen’s heart beats traitorously on, every wild thump echoed by Regina’s own, and there is something in the Evil Queen’s eyes that tells Regina she’s not nearly as phased by the threat as she should be._

_The Evil Queen is not afraid enough._

_It’s not until Regina follows the Evil Queen’s gaze down to her own hands that she realizes the Evil Queen wasn’t afraid of being heartless; she’s afraid of the power Regina holds in her hands. And Regina’s skin is itching, itching, itching but her breath comes easily as she brings her hands back up to the mirror again, mesmerized by the way it shimmers under her touch. Her story only moves forward if she has all of the pages, and this -- her reflection in these mirrors -- is a piece, a page falling into place._

_Once she controls the journey, the fear will stop, and all at once, Regina knows what she’s meant to do: she has to smash the mirror._

_Regina is death and destruction, and with both hands, she pushes the mirror to the ground._

_The Evil Queen falls to pieces at her feet._

_“Finally,” a voice chimes in behind her. “I thought she’d never shut up.” Regina whirls on the spot to face the mirror directly behind her, brow furrowed in confusion when she sees...herself in the mirror. It’s -- it’s her, there’s no question about it, but it’s different. This is not her as she stands but as she presents herself to the public -- pantsuit and short hair and makeup perfectly painted on and all._

_This is… Mayor Mills._

_Regina regards her curiously and takes a step across the hall, a little more wary than before. “You… wanted her gone,” she surmises, barely aware of the fact that she’s started to regain a little feeling in her toes. “You wanted her silenced.”_

_“Of course I did,” the mayor scoffs, arms crossed in front of her. “She may be capable of getting the job done, dear, but we both know she’s far too volatile to actually be effective.”_

_Regina hesitates halfway across the hall and glances over her shoulder at the shards of the mirror she’s just shattered, the edges of a memory echoing in her mind. Anger has made her blind and impulsive at times, true enough, but she also knows what the reputation of the Evil Queen has done for her. Slowly, she turns back to face the mayor in the mirror, skin itching. “Fear can be an effective tool,” she reminds the mayor, her words the echo of a flirtation long gone._

_The mayor merely levels her with a look. “It can also inspire inaction,” the mayor argues. “You and I have been in this position long enough to know that most of the time a stalemate benefits no one.”_

_Regina tries (and fails) to bite back a bemused smile and arches an eyebrow. She knows this woman well, too -- this woman who has thrived on power for so long, who has used it and abused it and proven its corruption time and time again. The implication lingering in the air is not one she can see the woman in the mirror entertaining, not with the sacrifice it requires. “You can’t honestly be standing there telling me this is about compromise,” Regina muses, trying very hard not to laugh derisively._

_The mayor doesn’t seem phased at all. “Well it’s certainly not about what she seems to think it is,” the mayor drawls, inclining her head toward the Evil Queen’s shattered pieces on the other side of the hall. “This isn’t about being a hero, dear. You’re more than that.”_

_Again, it’s the ghost of an echo of words long gone, these ones left in the library last spring while Shattered Sight loomed on the horizon. This is about leadership -- that much is painfully obvious simply from the mayor’s mere presence -- but it is also about choice. She’d made that abundantly clear to the Charmings back then, had framed choice as a game with winners and losers. The memory of it sinks in her chest with the weight of her guilt, and she wonders, for a moment, if this is a round she’s meant to lose. “What is it that you want from me?” Regina asks, knowing she sounds tired._

_It’s the mayor’s turn to look amused, now, corner of her mouth twitching up into a partially patient smile. “And once again, you’re missing the point, dear,” she sighs. “You’re the one who wants me.”_

_“Why -- because you have power?” Regina bites out, fire itching under her skin. “What makes you think I’d trust you with it any more than I trusted her?” she reasons, nodding back toward the broken fragments of the Evil Queen’s mirror._

_Another sigh from the mayor but this time she’s the one who sounds tired, and she’s quiet for a long moment after, studying Regina carefully. Slowly, she crouches down, and Regina follows her gaze down to the where the jagged crack sprawls across the floor in the middle of the hall. There’s something oddly methodical about the way the mayor reaches out a hand on her side of the mirror and presses it to the floor, almost like she’s trying to reach out and touch the real thing to examine it. Regina’s less afraid of the mayor than the Evil Queen or Rumplestiltskin, but she still can’t quite help the way her breath catches in her chest at the thought of someone else crossing mirror barriers like she had a moment ago._

_(Like Cora had.)_

_“You still haven’t gotten this repaired yet,” the mayor remarks idly, head tilted a little to the side as she surveys the damage._

_It takes Regina a moment to realize that the mayor’s referring to the destruction of the pier out in the real world, and she narrows her eyes, disconcerted. This -- this is still part of the game, she thinks, a series of moves and countermoves like the same delicate dance she’d done on Maleficent’s mansion floor. “Not yet, no,” she agrees, and it’s her turn to study the mayor carefully now. “But I’m sure that you’re well aware of how long these things take in a bureaucracy, and that’s not even factoring in all of the rain we’ve been getting lately.”_

_The mayor chuckles lowly, more bemused than before, but she doesn’t look up or move, doesn’t give Regina a chance to question her before she speaks up again. “It’s interesting, isn’t it,” she muses, “how one impulsive decision requires countless carefully constructed choices to deal with the consequences?”_

_Guilt crowds the edges of her vision like a shadow at that, her stomach flipping unpleasantly. For all that the mayor claims Regina is the one who wants her here, Regina cannot help but think that this is all part of the game. She has, admittedly, never handled loss very well, but she’s acutely aware that this is so much more than just a mere game. This is about ensuring her survival, and game or not, Regina cannot afford to lose -- not if she wants to keep moving forward. She takes a breath to steady herself, and another, each more painful than the last, and she swallows hard around the thick onslaught of tears that threaten to well in her eyes. “Is that a warning?”_

_The mayor does deign to lift her eyes to meet Regina’s at that, and there’s something almost… aching in her irises. Regina knows herself well enough to know that it’s not pity, not quite. It’s actually almost strangely comforting; there’s sincerity there, in the mayor’s expression, and Regina thinks that the mayor genuinely cares. Slowly, the mayor rises to her full height again, and this time when she takes a step forward, Regina doesn’t flinch away. “It’s a reminder,” the mayor says, patient and gentle._

_“Of what?” Regina snaps, patience wearing thin and much closer to tears than she wants to be._

_This time it’s the mayor who takes a measured breath, her own patience clearly a little tested, but she doesn’t bend or break beyond the breath. “Look,” she sighs, “I know you don’t particularly trust me. I know that I haven’t always made the best decisions. I know I can often be selfish and -- perhaps sometimes -- a bit short-sighted.”_

_The admission forces a startled breath out of Regina but fuels her fire, fight igniting in her veins. “You know, you still sound an awful lot like her,” Regina points out, glancing briefly at the scattered remains of the Evil Queen behind her._

_That gets under the mayor’s skin a little, Regina can tell, jaw working as her patience approaches a breaking point. “Remind me why you’re in here, dear?”_

_Regina’s chest grows tight at that, heart beating traitorously against her ribcage. She anchors a hand over the swell of her belly and closes her eyes, fingertips tingling at the memory, and tries to remember how to breathe. “I took a sleeping curse to save my son.”_

_“And in the process, you put countless people in danger,” the mayor reminds her. Regina’s eyes snap open, retaliation ready on her tongue, but the mayor holds up a hand to prevent her from speaking. “And sometimes,” she adds, a small sense of urgency to her tone, “it’s worked the other way around.” Once more, Regina follows the mayor’s gaze down to the jagged crack carved into the glass floor, and ache hollows out a hole inside of her._

_“You are so reckless with yourself,” Robin had said. “You never stop to think.”_

_This isn’t a game anymore, she realizes, not with the stakes this high. This is still very much about choice, but the mayor -- Regina -- is still right. There are times she has poured countless hours into practical plans, but often her most critical choices occur among moments of impulse and instinct. She has both hurt and healed, been selfish and sacrificed, and the ways in which she has protected both herself and others have always, always come at a cost._

_Every choice she makes leaves a mark._

_But she is both -- light and dark -- and somewhere in her soul, Regina can hear the echoes of Snow’s words to her this past spring._

_I am not all good. You are not all evil._

_“Things are not that simple,” she breathes, looking back up at the mayor in the mirror, and exhaustion pushes tears into her eyes._

_“No,” the mayor agrees simply. “They’re not. If they were, you could view the world through a hero’s eyes. Things would be either black or white, right or wrong. But they’re not, dear, and you are not a hero.”_

_“I’m a leader,” Regina says bitterly, and she has never hated the weight of her crown more than she does now. “And someone always loses.”_

_“And you feel that loss,” the mayor presses, taking another step forward, always, impossibly closer. “Deeply.”_

_Regina’s chest feels tight once more, breath spiraling in frozen fractals in front of her, and she wraps her arm around her middle tighter still, fingers flexing anxiously over the swell of her belly. She feels the coil in her gut, an anxious twist that begs for release, and she recognizes the fear for what it is._

_She has gained so much, now, that she cannot bear to lose again._

_“Is there a point to this little lecture of yours?” she says thinly, hating the way tears spill and stain their way down her cheeks._

_The mayor sighs and folds her arms over her chest, but it’s not defensive, Regina thinks, merely resignation. “You’ve learned to live with your choices. I’m not denying you that. But so long as you carry them with you, you will never move forward.”_

_Regina huffs out a breath of air, disbelieving. “You want me to move on,” she says incredulously. “You want me to just forget --”_

_“I didn’t say anything about forgetting,” the mayor interjects. “That would defeat the purpose.”_

_“Then what is the purpose?” Regina snaps, voice pitching high as the anxiety in her coils tighter and tighter._

_“To make a choice,” the mayor says, her voice gentler still. “You either learn to let go, dear, or you find a way to use that weight to move you forward. You are going to make mistakes -- that’s inevitable. But if you don’t alter course, if you change nothing? Well.” A pause here, out of place and maybe only partially deliberate, and then the corner of the mayor’s mouth twitches up into a twisted smile. “I’d say then you’d really know what it’s like to lose your mind, but you’ve already done that once before, haven’t you dear?” And this time, Regina doesn’t have to follow her gaze to know where it lands._

_The Evil Queen is in pieces, and Regina must carry her along._

_“Please,” Regina rasps, just shy of begging as she takes a step toward the mirror, “tell me what to do.”_

_The mayor’s smile softens, just a little, but it’s a warm welcome to Regina’s freezing frame. “You can’t just live with your choices anymore,” the mayor says, not unkindly. “You have to live through them. And I know that dealing with the consequences is messy sometimes -- believe me, I know that better than anyone. But,” she continues, taking one last step toward the glass on her side of the mirror, “if you can do that, dear, then you can leave me to deal with the aftermath. When the dust settles, I’m very good at picking up the pieces. You know that as well as I do. Keep moving,” the mayor says emphatically, lifting a hand to touch her fingertips to her side of the glass, the ghost of an imprint left behind, “and I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.”_

_And all at once, Regina understands: there are pieces of her that can guarantee a win even when she loses._

_She exhales slowly, breath coming more easily now as anxiety unfurls and dissipates in her core, and somewhere in her, she finds the ability to smile._

_Just because she can do this on her own doesn’t mean she has to._

_She takes one last step toward the mirror and presses her hand against the glass, matching the mayor’s mark on the other side._

_Regina is a paragon of power, and she alone is accountable for sending this mirror to shatter._

_Back in the center of the hall, she closes her eyes and tries to take a moment to collect herself. Her breath feels lighter in her lungs than it did before, less cold and stinging and weighted. She takes a deep breath in, relaxes the arm wrapped around her middle and wiggles her toes against the glass floor to try and keep herself calm and centered. She longs for the comfort of someone else here -- a solid, steady, sure presence to anchor her -- but the time for that is long gone, she thinks. She spent so long trying desperately to keep her loved ones away from this place -- away from the madness of her mind -- that it’d left her on her own in here for weeks. She’d sought comfort in her waking hours with Robin, in his hands and arms and heart beating under her touch, but as much as she longs for him right now, she thinks she’s learned what path it is she’s meant to take._

_These mirrors, she thinks, she’s meant to face on her own; she just needs to believe she can._

_When she opens her eyes, the mirror with the tavern door stands in front of her._

_She’s… startled by it, to be sure, but it doesn’t fill her with the same sort of sense of trepidation that the tricks of the Hall of Mirrors usually do. This particular mirror -- this particular door has appeared and disappeared and remerged over and over again, open and shut and in pieces on the ground. It’s been awhile since she’s seen it, but it’d been in one piece the last time, an open passage for one of the birds. In hindsight, she wonders if that’s why Robin -- not… Robin had appeared in the hall during her last visit. But this -- the Robin she’d failed to meet in the tavern back then was not the one who’d tried to slit her throat last time, and rather than let the memory freeze fear back into her lungs, Regina finds herself more… curious than anything else. This particular door -- this particular mirror keeps coming back, and Regina wonders if she’s meant to see through to the other side again._

_She glances back down at the shattered remains of the mayor’s mirror and wonders, briefly, if opening a door to the past is the right choice if she wants to move forward._

_And all at once, she realizes what it is, here, that she’s meant to face._

_This is a choice she’s already made._

_Slowly, she shifts her attention back to the mirror with the tavern door. She knows who she’ll find on the other side now if she chooses to open it. And this isn’t -- she can’t afford to be afraid, here. The mayor had been right; fear inspires inaction and ache is useless without direction. Gold had told Henry that controlling the journey was important, essential to combatting fear. And David -- David had been the one with the solution, had pushed her into a memory old and gray around the edges that reminded her of what it was like to face down her fear._

_Regina is not eighteen anymore, but the pain on the other side of that door is very much her own._

_With each step forward, she gives her ache direction._

_There’s a different sort of weight in her chest now as she slows to a stop in front of the mirror. This type of ache is different than the ones that have come before it, the shadows of guilt absent from her eyes, anxiety quiet in her veins. It’s an overwhelming… sadness, almost, that slowly curls its way around her heart, and each beat feels slower in its wake. This isn’t regret; she knows what regret feels like. It’s the sharp sting in the back of her throat at Henry feeling lost and insignificant, the press of Snow’s thigh against hers and the gentle cadence of her voice. It’s not the stiff tightness of restraints or the broken bark of a Neverland tree at her back. No, this sadness feels much more like the loss of light in Daddy’s eyes when she took his life from him -- the resigned recognition when he’d appeared in the mirrors all those weeks ago._

_This isn’t regret but remorse, and among the lives she has ruined, Regina is also accountable for ruining her own._

_She has never been good at dealing with loss._

_But she has to do this; it has to be her choice to do this. Courage, she has found, comes only on the heels of resilience when facing fear, and she must do what the woman through the looking glass could not._

_She must be brave._

_The glass shimmers and gives way under her touch with ease again as she reaches out, hand sinking through to grasp the handle of the door and push it open. It’s near-dark on the other side, only a spare lantern or two lighting the path before her, and she ducks her head a little, eyes narrowed to try and discern something, anything in the light. The glass shimmers again as she pulls her hand back to her side of the mirror, and it’s only then that she can start to see the other side with any sort of clarity. She blinks a little in rapid succession, surprised to find herself standing on the inside of the tavern looking out into the alleyway._

_And then she sees herself emerge from the shadows, and Regina finds she’s not quite so surprised after all._

_She’d never gone in._

_This version of herself is still very young -- just barely twenty-one, if she remembers correctly -- and is still actively resisting Rumplestiltskin’s pull on her, her ache slipping and guiding her into darkness. This woman -- this girl is the Queen of Nothing, still soft around the edges, and beyond the remnants of resignation in her eyes, Regina still sees traces of tenacity in her._

_She still wants to fight._

_“So,” the Queen of Nothing sighs, her voice oddly quiet as she approaches her side of the mirror, “you found me.”_

_Regina could almost laugh were it not for the way the aching sadness wrapped around her heart begins to coil a little tighter. The implication is not lost on her -- the idea that in order to be found, Regina would have been looking for her in the first place. And it’s not -- it’s not an untruth, exactly, but Regina doesn’t think she’s been conscious of the search for this part of her. This is the version of her that still has a choice -- still has the opportunity for hope -- and Regina has lamented the loss of her more than once. She’d done it with Tink, back in Neverland, and again with Robin in her vault this past spring. If she could go back, if she could make a different choice --_

_But she can’t, and she wouldn’t, and even searching to capture the spirit of this fragment of herself that’s been lost to time isn’t so much a search as it is a chase. This, too, is part of the game, and she feels the echo of this girl’s aching fear in her chest as if their heartbeats were one and the same. “You’ve been running a long time,” Regina remarks._

_The Queen of Nothing inhales sharply, clearly uncomfortable at being caught out. She’s… steeling herself, Regina realizes, rigidity lining the curves of her shoulders and settling into her jawline. The fight isn’t gone from this girl, not yet, and Regina finds herself fascinated by the way the Queen of Nothing studies her carefully, eyes searching for something to distract and deflect. The Evil Queen’s gaze had been predatory, at best, but the Queen of Nothing looks only for a way to defend herself. So Regina finds herself unsurprised when the Queen of Nothing’s gaze falls down to the curve of her belly and lingers there a little too long. “And it seems you’ve stopped.”_

_Regina glances down, fingertips brushing across the expanse of her belly. That’s not quite right, she thinks. She’s still running, but she’s stopped running away from things, at least -- or she’s trying to; there’s a difference. But she can understand why the Queen of Nothing would choose to look at her pregnancy this way: this is something the woman in the mirror thinks she cannot do. And yet the mere fact that Regina can -- that she’s still somehow managing to do this, that she’s made it further into this pregnancy than she ever has before -- is enough to have hope blooming a smile onto her face. “Something like that,” she murmurs over a laugh._

_“Is it --” There’s a pause for a moment after the Queen of Nothing cuts herself off, but it’s heavy enough that it forces Regina’s smile to falter as she looks back up, eyes narrowed in concern. The Queen of Nothing takes a deep breath and tries again. “Is it --” she repeats, but the rest of the words seem to get lost in her throat as if she cannot bear to say them out loud, and it takes Regina a moment to put the pieces together._

_“Oh,” she breathes quietly. “No, it’s -- not the King’s,” she reassures the woman in the mirror. The Queen of Nothing visibly relaxes at that, but there’s still worry there, in her irises and in the way she bites her lip in contemplation. She hesitates for a moment before lifting up on her toes a little, craning her neck to try and look into what she must think is the tavern. Regina knits her brow in confusion for half a moment as she glances over her shoulder, but she is alone in the Hall of Mirrors, and it’s not until she looks back at the woman -- the girl in the mirror that Regina understands what, or who, rather, she’s looking for._

_The man with the lion tattoo._

_It’s Regina’s turn to relax this time as her smile blossoms again, gentle and easy and unaffected. The thought of Robin being in here with her is still not one she particularly wants to entertain again -- not after last time -- but the way the girl in the mirror searches for him almost makes Regina feel like Robin -- the real Robin is here with her._

_In a strange way, page twenty-three feels more real than it ever has before. She’ll have to have it framed, when she wakes up._

_And Regina is going to wake up._

_“We find him,” Regina says at last, startling the Queen of Nothing enough so that she jumps a little. “The man with the lion tattoo -- we find him, eventually. Or I guess he finds us, if we’re being technical.”_

_The Queen of Nothing shifts nervously on her side of the mirror, hand anchored over her middle in what Regina knows is an effort to combat her anxiety, and together they stand, a near perfect reflection of one another. “And that --” Another start and stop, this time to swallow hard, and Regina has to try very hard not to let her ache direct her forward in an effort to comfort the girl on the other side of the glass. “And that’s his child?” the Queen of Nothing asks, clearly afraid of the answer._

_Regina nods, smile breaking down into something more gentle as ache pushes tears up into her eyes. “Yes,” she affirms, voice barely above a whisper. One last moment of hesitation and then she’s moving forward again, every step still careful and slow so she doesn’t frighten the woman in the mirror away. “Look,” she says quietly, “I know you’re afraid.”_

_“You’re not,” the Queen of Nothing counters, every inch of her trembling terribly, but still she doesn’t move._

_“I am,” Regina laughs wetly. “I am as much afraid as you are, I promise. It’s not something that ever really goes away. But you were right. I stopped running -- or I’ve stopped running away, at least.”_

_“How?”_

_Another step forward, always forward, careful and calculated and approaching the girl in the mirror like she would a horse that’s easily spooked. “I let go of my anger,” she says, voice level and even. “I took a chance on hope.”_

_The Queen of Nothing works her jaw a little, eyes shining with unshed tears, and she does take a step back this time, clearly ready to run. “I don’t think I can do that,” she confesses, voice thick and unsteady._

_“I know,” Regina says gently, stopping just shy of the mirror. “You’re not ready. That’s okay. The timing’s not right, anyway.”_

_“Then why do you want me here?” the Queen of Nothing asks, unmoving. “What was the point of chasing me down if you’re not going to change anything?”_

_Regina finds the answer ready and waiting on her tongue more easily than she would have ever expected. “Because I already have,” she says, closer to tears again than she wants to be. “I did make a different choice. I just didn’t make it with you. I wouldn’t. I can’t,” she implores, needing the woman in the mirror to understand. “I can’t go back and change anything without losing so much of what I’ve been trying to preserve. And I can’t -- I can’t take you with me,” she says, the realization dawning with her breath. “I can’t carry you anymore.”_

_Something in the Queen of Nothing’s heart breaks at that, every aching fracture echoed in Regina’s chest, and it’s with a reckless abandon that the Queen of Nothing propels herself forward, hands pressed fervently against the glass. “Please,” she begs, still just shy of tears. “Please, don’t leave me here.”_

_“I’m sorry,” Regina breathes, and she is the one to cry first. “I’m sorry. I have to. I can’t -- I can’t keep living with regretting the choice you made. It’s a weight I can’t afford to carry anymore, and I don’t --” She cuts herself off abruptly here when she realizes what she’s going to say. She knows better than most the way words can be used as weapons, sometimes, and she knows that the woman through the looking glass is already in enough pain. She can’t add to it, she --_

_“You won’t,” the Queen of Nothing supplies for her, fingertips falling away from her side of the mirror. Once again, her gaze lands upon the swell of Regina’s belly, and the resignation in her voice stings in the worst possible way. “You won’t.”_

_And in that moment, Regina knows that they both understand: if she takes the Queen of Nothing with her, she cannot move forward._

_And more than anything, she wants to keep moving forward._

_With shaking hands, Regina presses her fingertips against the glass on her side. “I’m sorry,” she breathes, one last time, “but this is a choice I have to make. I have to let you go.” Her heart sinks a little when the Queen of Nothing takes a step away from her, but the woman in the mirror doesn’t fully retreat, not yet, and when she rushes forward one last time, hope lifts Regina’s heart back where it belongs._

_Maybe here, she thinks, is where she begins to learn to live with loss._

_The Queen of Nothing presses her hands back against the mirror, forehead resting against the glass, and even without the proximity, Regina thinks this is the closest she’s felt to this version of herself in a long, long time. Smashing this mirror is going to be much, much harder than the others, and even as the crack along the floor carves a similar scar along Regina’s heart, she tries to find a way to preserve a piece she knows she cannot take. “Please,” she murmurs, heart bleeding and beating its way up her throat, “don’t jump again.”_

_If only Robin could see her now._

_The woman in the mirror is long gone -- this young woman who had barely touched darkness -- but with hope in her hands, Regina tips the mirror over to give her a second chance._

_“You did the right thing.”_

_Regina starts with a slight gasp before glancing around the hall, wiping her eyes furiously. It takes half a moment for her vision to clear enough to make sense of the space again, but once she’s oriented herself, her gaze lands upon the only two mirrors in that hall that remain standing._

_One of them is not empty._

_She sees herself again -- that’s to be expected at this point -- but this version is much closer to Mayor Mills than either of her Enchanted Forest counterparts. Her hair is much shorter than Regina’s is now that she’s been growing it out again, but she’s less put together than the mayor had been. She’s as close to waking as Regina thinks she could be -- barely any make-up and a simple t-shirt and vest and a pair of green bermuda shorts that Regina is certain she’s only ever worn in summer. She’s… relaxed, gentle and familiar, and in this version of herself, Regina finds comfort of an entirely different sort than she had upon seeing the Evil Queen. “You did the right thing,” the woman in the mirror says again. “You gave her another chance.” And breath is like a wildfire in her lungs now, easy and all-consuming, and Regina’s feet carry her across the hall before she can so much as think about it._

_She comes to a grinding halt a few paces away from the mirror when she hears a baby start to cry, and instinct pulls her hand up over the swell of her belly before magic has a chance to spark out of her skin. The woman in the mirror hears it too and turns to glance over her shoulder, but she seems less distraught than Regina feels, her eyes and smile warm and affectionate. She moves away from Regina for a moment, retreating deeper into the mirror, and it’s only then that Regina takes notice of what the inside of this mirror actually looks like. It’s a room, plain and nondescript, but it’s brighter on that side of the mirror than it is in the hall, sunlight just starting to stream through the windowpanes. Regina watches carefully as the woman in the mirror bends over briefly, but it’s only when she straightens up that Regina can finally see why she’d followed the noise._

_Here, it seems, is the missing cradle._

_It’s too far away to discern details, but as far as Regina can tell, it doesn’t seem as marked up as it had been when she last saw it. She wonders if the woman in the mirror had reclaimed it and restored it, but the passing thought is idle and fleeting, gone as soon as the woman turns to face her again._

_There’s a baby in her arms._

_Regina flexes her fingers a little anxiously and waits for a spark that does not come, and it takes her a long moment -- a moment of watching and waiting and listening to this woman soothe the crying child -- to realize that she really has nothing to worry about. This woman is a mother, selfless in the best regards, and Regina knows that if nothing else, this is someone she can trust._

_Perhaps she didn’t end up quite like Cora after all._

_Slowly, Regina begins to feel at ease again, tension bleeding from her muscles as the mother gently rocks the baby in her arms and hums melodically. Regina recognizes the tune immediately; it’s “Hush, Little Baby” again, but it’s less haunting than before. There is so much about this -- this mirror, this woman -- that makes her feel safe in a way she didn’t before. She ventures forward one more step, and then another, and soon she’s close enough to make out the features of the baby’s face. And Regina’s heart skips a beat in her chest; she would know those eyes anywhere._

_Henry._

_But it’s not him, not really, not even the dark, twisted version of him the hall had tried to trick her with before, and still Regina is not afraid. This is merely a distant memory come forward, pieces and pages of her past that she alone was privy to before she’d transplanted altered versions of them into Emma’s mind. Regina’s smile breaks open again with a gentle warmth at the sight of herself rocking Henry in her arms; idly, she rubs her palm across the curve of her belly, the phantom weight of Henry’s hand there last week an anchor in its own right. “You gave him the world,” she remarks fondly._

_The mother in the mirror chuckles under her breath, low and warm, but she doesn’t take her eyes off of the baby. “I’d do it again,” she murmurs, hand sweeping soothingly across Henry’s back. She’s quiet for a moment as she waits for the baby’s eyes to flutter shut, cheek resting gently atop his head. She meets Regina’s eyes briefly before glancing down at where Regina’s hand is still anchored over her belly. But where the Queen of Nothing’s eyes had looked for distraction and discontent, there is something much more approving in the way the mother in the mirror looks upon Regina now. “It seems like you are.”_

_It’s a bit ambiguous -- the mother could be referring to Henry or Roland or the child Regina’s carrying -- but it hardly matters, Regina thinks. She finds herself demuring in light of the compliment, an odd and flustered reaction at best as she briefly smiles down at the curve of her abdomen before looking back up. “One would hope, anyway.”_

_The deflection only makes the mother smile wider, and Regina can tell she’s fighting back a laugh in favor of letting baby Henry slumber on. “Quarter in the jar,” the mother chides, nowhere near the reprimand it could be, and this woman is an amalgamation of pages seeking to bind, present and past combined._

_“It means you’re not doomed to suffer,” Robin had insisted last spring. “There’s a bright future for you around every turn even if you miss one.”_

_The mother in the mirror is showing her possibility._

_It’s a happy thought, that, but it also leaves Regina wondering at the ways in which this game has worked thus far. The Hall of Mirrors has reflected pieces of her soul back at her for weeks now; tonight is no different. Still, the intention behind her encounters in here tonight is very clear by now: she must learn to love herself this way -- in each of these ways. And while not all of the reflections Regina has seen tonight have been wholly bad, she cannot help but wonder if there is darkness hidden in the mother she has yet to embrace._

_(She’s not entirely sure she could.)_

_The mother speaks again before Regina has so much as an opportunity to put her thoughts into words, and while she’s quiet in order not to wake the baby, the mother’s voice is still level and firm. “Look,” she says, sounding oddly like the mayor for a moment, “I know you doubt me sometimes.”_

_Denial bubbles up Regina’s sternum, instinctively forming a protest on her tongue. “It’s not that, exactly -- entirely,” she argues, matching the mother’s lilting tone. “It’s just -- I so often think of myself as you, first. And I just… don’t understand why you wouldn’t show up before the others then, if that’s the case. I mean, that’s… how this works, isn’t it? It’s my soul, my mind?”_

_The mother draws in a breath but hesitates on her answer, looking a bit like she’s hedging on whether or not to completely agree. “Things are not that simple,” the mother says finally, and she is more of Regina than anyone who has come before her. “You’ve already accepted me.”_

_“And I hadn’t, with the others?” Regina guesses, eyes narrowed in confusion._

_The baby fusses a bit in the mother’s arms, delaying her response as she diverts her attention to try and keep him asleep. “Not in the ways you needed to, no,” the mother affirms, clearly distracted from the conversation. “You needed to see them, first.”_

_“Why?”_

_Again, the mother doesn’t answer right away. She could easily multitask, Regina knows; it’s a skill she developed well over the years while raising Henry. But she seems intent on making sure Henry is well looked after and content. He settles fairly quickly, no longer fussing, but the mother takes her time, hands steady and sure and patient. There is such affection in her eyes and in the warmth of her smile as she presses a kiss to the baby’s temple and curls in close. And that too is the materialization of a memory long since faded: Henry’s chest pressed against her own, their hearts beating in time, an answer to the other’s call. “Because,” the mother answers finally, directing her gaze back at Regina, “I always belong to someone else first, and this isn’t what you wished for.”_

_And all at once, she is taken back to the moment that ultimately brought her here -- standing face to face with a spinning wheel and a sleeping curse, presented with a choice. She’d lamented the way she’d still felt like Rumplestiltskin’s puppet back then, had felt fire flare up in annoyance at Maleficent forcing her hand. But her child had come first -- last, always -- and that, at least, is always Regina’s choice. It’s the choice of the woman in the mirror, and only now does Regina remember what she has longed for all this time._

_She would so much like to belong to herself before she is anyone else’s, and the woman in the mirror does not have that choice._

_“Why are you here?” Regina asks, still taking care not to speak too loudly for fear of waking the baby. “If I've already accepted you, then why are you here?”_

_Another delayed answer but Regina finds she doesn’t mind so much. It’s easy to find patience here, she thinks, every measured breath and even temper an echo of the woman on the other side. She watches as the mother in the mirror makes her way back to the cradle and gently settles the baby back inside, fingers nimble as she adjusts the blanket around his sleeping frame. She’s surprisingly graceful in the way she settles herself onto the ground next to the cradle and sets it into motion, each swing slow and steady as it rocks back and forth under the palm of her hand. Henry sleeps on, and the mother rests her chin upon bended knees, looking oddly young in her vigil. “I am always with you,” she says, quiet and clear, and it takes Regina a moment to realize that the mother is speaking to her, providing her an answer to her question. “And when nothing else is certain, I will always be the one thing you got right.”_

_Familiarity aches and echoes in Regina’s core, and still her child’s magic does not twist and coil into existence. With Henry, Regina finally got something right._

_She is not all dark._

_“If you’re always with me,” she says, taking one last step toward the mirror, “I shouldn’t have to put you to pieces.”_

_The hand rocking the cradle stills the swaying movement. “Don’t be afraid,” the mother reassures her, hand ducking inside of the cradle._

_“I’m not afraid of you --”_

_“You’re afraid of losing me,” the mother interjects, her tone making it clear that there’s no room for argument. But Regina has no fight in her for this, not when it’s the truth, and here in the hall of mirrors is where the mother must break down the lies. “But you don’t need to be afraid,” the mother says, her voice gentler than ever as she brushes her fingertips lightly across the apple of the baby’s cheek. “Putting me to pieces won’t break me. I’m more resilient than the rest of them combined.”_

_Regina’s heart sinks in her chest, aching with reckless abandon. “You deserve someone to take care of you, too,” she insists, throat thick with the onslaught of tears._

_The mother finally meets her gaze again, eyes patient and kind. “I can take care of myself just fine,” she says. “I’ll take care of us both. It’s time you did the same for you.”_

_Regina grips the edge of the mirror tight and blinks back tears, voice shaking. “And you’ll be with me?”_

_“Always,” the mother promises, hand resting gently over the baby to keep him in place. “Send us to sleep, sweetheart. We’ll be with you when you wake.”_

_A gentle smile breaks its way onto Regina’s face at the reassurance. Carefully, she rests her forehead against the glass of the mirror and finds comfort in its rigidity. She feels impossibly, unbearably young for a moment, as if she’s about to lose her own mother all over again, but she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath -- in, out. She tries to remember that this is a woman -- a version of herself -- she feels safe around, someone she trusts implicitly to do the right thing._

_In the midst of mirrored darkness, Regina can be a lone light, too; she just has to believe._

_Her eyes snap open as her left hand sparks to life with her child’s magic, and even in pieces, Regina knows that she can keep both mother and child safe._

_Regina is a mother first, and with the utmost care in the world, she gently sends the cradle rocking down, down, down._

_“Isn’t that bad luck?”_

_With barely any composure left, Regina turns toward the last mirror standing, and trapped beyond the looking glass, Regina finds herself face to face with a child._

_The girl cannot be more than ten years old, eyes tentative but bright, and she looks far more like Snow had at that age than Regina ever would have cared to admit. But there’s a lingering sadness about this girl different from Snow’s; there’s a visible scar just above the girl’s lip, the mark of Mother left behind . The rest of this mirror is black, a stark contrast to the white light surrounding the woman Regina has just sent to sleep, but she can see the shadows for what they really are, her skin itching at the way darkness lingers around the girl -- a predator seeking prey._

_“Breaking a mirror,” the girl says, hands pressed against her side of the glass as she leans and peers around at the mess Regina’s created in the hall, “that brings seven years of bad luck, doesn’t it?”_

_Regina mimics her for a moment, eyes sweeping across the room as she surveys the damage. She hadn’t given it much thought, really, had simply followed the instinct that told her what needed to be done to ensure her escape from this haunting. She doesn’t think she’s terribly superstitious -- she’s broken plenty of mirrors in her life, after all -- but she cannot expect the same from the girl standing across from her, worry etched into the lines of her face. This girl is still untouched by darkness, still unaware of the madness of her mother’s mind and all of the marks it leaves behind. This girl is blissfully unaware of the collection of hearts beating beneath the sitting room floor. She hasn’t seen the bodies carted away in the middle of the night. She hasn’t put the pieces together, doesn’t understand why Daddy’s skin is black and blue and purple all the time, and at ten years old, Regina knows she could never understand why taking a risk like this is more important than fear._

_It was a lesson she’d learned well by eighteen when she’d first met Snow, boundless in her bravery._

_The only way to overcome fear, she’d told Snow, is to face it._

_With one last look down at the pieces of the mother’s mirror, Regina grants herself a little grace and crosses the hall one last time toward the mirror that stands alone. Slowly, she lowers herself down to her knees in front of the mirror, fingers ghosting against the glass where the child’s hands are pressed on the other side. She doesn’t touch the glass, not yet, isn’t quite ready to see if this one will give way or not, and even without the cold snap, Regina’s hands still tremble. “There are worse things,” she says finally, voice shaky and uneven. “Breaking those mirrors was necessary. I can’t get out of here otherwise.”_

_The child narrows her eyes a little, clearly confused, but after a moment clarity dawns in her eyes, and even as she pulls her hands away, Regina can see that the child’s hands are shaking, too. She doesn’t step away, not yet, but fear is a familiar friend to them both and Regina can easily recognize it in the child’s eyes. “Does that --” the child starts, then stops, swallow audible as she curls her shoulders inward. “Does that mean you have to break me, too?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper._

_And what’s left of Regina’s heart bleeds into the rest of her body, every inch of her aching in empathy. Her hands sink through the mirror before she can even really think about it, glass shimmering around the edges. The girl gasps and jumps a little in place but doesn’t run away, and even back then, Regina thinks, this girl is so much braver than she could ever hope to be. “Give me your hand,” Regina prompts gently, holding one of her own out in offering. The girl eyes her hand apprehensively, clearly hesitant, but Regina is mother and magic and mirrors alike, patient and persevering. “It’s okay, dear,” she says reassuringly. “I promise you’re safe with me.”_

_The girl smiles a little at that, belief blossoming in her irises, and she slips her hand into Regina’s without so much as a second thought. It’s a bit startling, the sudden skin-on-skin contact as the girl clasps her hand with an easy affection. It’s the most in her body Regina’s felt in any of her visits here all month, even moreso than when she’d gripped the Evil Queen’s heart tight in her hand. She takes a moment to try and breathe her way through it, to let her skin settle and her heartbeat come to rest. She needs distraction though in much the same way the Queen of Nothing had, something else to pull her focus and detract from the intensity of the way she feels her own heart beating through this girl’s hand. Her gaze lands once again upon the scar etched into the girl’s upper lip and she reaches out a tentative hand, thumb smoothing over the mark Cora left behind._

_And Mother’s words echo around her one last time: perhaps you merely destroy everything you touch._

_Regina’s eyes fall down to where she holds the child’s hand. It’s her own right hand on this end, paired with the child’s left, rooted in darkness and stained with the blood of every heart she’d dared to hold in her grasp. And Regina thinks of Snow, staggering and falling in this very hall after Regina had claimed her innocence and left her mark. She has ruined so many lives._

_She wonders if this is where she destroys her own._

_But the child is unafraid of her, it seems, and she reaches up to pull Regina’s left hand from her face and adjust her grasp, both hands a weighted anchor between them. Her skin is clean, unmarked and unmarred by neither light nor dark that Regina has brought to the table._

_Perhaps she doesn’t destroy everything she touches, after all._

_Clarity comes in pieces now as she studies the girl in the mirror carefully, her warm skin a stark contrast to when she’d first arrived earlier tonight. This girl reminds her so much of the Queen of Nothing, still somewhat sheltered from darkness, but they are also both far out of reach, too long gone for Regina to ever return to them. They are a part of her, always, but in much the same way Regina has had to let go of the loss of the Queen of Nothing, she thinks she’s meant to do something similar here._

_And still she cannot bear to leave herself with a broken heart._

_“I know you’re lonely, sweetheart,” Regina murmurs, running her thumbs over the girl’s knuckles soothingly. “But I can’t --” She cuts herself off abruptly, words caught and strangled in her throat._

_But where Regina loses her voice, the girl finds her own. “You can’t take me with you,” she supplies knowingly. And Regina steels herself for it, waits for the tightened grip on her hands and the unshed tears and the desperate pleas again -- please, don’t leave me here -- but none of it comes. The child’s hands are steady in her own, and while there is resignation in her eyes there is also trust, simple and implicit._

_For a moment, it’s as if there’s no glass separating them at all._

_“It’s okay,” the child says finally, and oh, there the tears are, caught between the breath that rattles its way up from her lungs. “I think I was broken a long time ago.”_

_“No,” Regina reassures her, gripping the girl’s hands tighter still. “Not you. Not yet.”_

_“But soon?”_

_The child looks at her now with understanding in her eyes -- understanding that Regina knows can only come from growing up in a house ruled by Cora. Adults cannot promise anything, cannot keep the promises they make, promises that are more fragile than blood and skin and bone combined. And Regina’s heart breaks a little further knowing that yes, sooner than anyone with a fragile heart would want, this child will be broken and live in pieces for decades. It will take more years still to begin putting those pieces back together, and even though Regina has only just begun to heal in recent years, she also knows that she has only taken the first steps._

_Reluctantly, she nods in answer to the child’s question. “Okay,” the child says, her voice quiet and carrying a hint of trembling fear, but her shoulders are square and her chin is up. The child’s grip tightens -- perhaps involuntarily, perhaps out of fear, but the child’s fingers tighten around hers all the same -- but after another moment, she begins to pull her hands away. And here behind fragile glass, Regina finds the piece of herself she has never really left behind._

_Here, she finds, is where the heart of the most resilient was born._

_In her chest, it beats on._

_But the child isn’t pulling away, Regina realizes, just pulling Regina along with her. Regina’s arms sink deeper into the mirror, her nose nearly brushing the surface of the glass, but she is not afraid of falling in this time._

_This time, she knows she won’t._

_The child’s touch is exceedingly gentle as she brings one of Regina’s hands up to her chest, and it’s Regina, Regina, Regina, not Snow, not tainted and stained by darkness, not innocence lost, not yet. The child presses Regina’s hand flat against her chest, a deliberate weight to measure the steady beat beyond each breath, and Regina feels each echo in her chest like a metronome keeping time. “You’ll take care of it, won’t you?”_

_“Try not to be so careless with it,” the dark version of Robin had bitten out, every last word like venom, and Regina’s heart breaks open like a dam._

_She huffs out a breath as tears spring from her eyes again, her hand burning over the child’s chest, but she forces herself not to pull away. She knows what’s in store for this heart, has felt every last beat and break and bruise, has seen it burn black and bleed bright. She cannot go back and change it, wouldn’t even dare try, but there is one thing she knows she can tell this child that will not be a lie. “I won’t always keep it safe,” she admits. “I can’t even tell you that I will always be the one who looks after it. But I promise you,” she breathes, emphatic and pleading, “with every breath that I have, I will make sure it keeps beating.”_

_And with a broken smile, the child relinquishes her hold on Regina’s hands and does not ask for more. Slowly, Regina pulls her arms back through the mirror, and while the glass shimmers briefly before stilling, her hands, she finds, are still very much shaking. Her legs feel unsteady as she pushes herself to her feet again, every last limb aching with burn. “I am sorry,” she whispers, fingertips ghosting over the surface of the mirror. “I’m sorry I can’t take you with me.”_

_“It’s okay,” the child says. “Where you go, I can’t follow.”_

_“Follow me, end up like me,” the vision of Emma had taunted, and the child in the mirror is bound to the path of the past._

_Regina can only move forward._

_“Let go,” the child urges. “It’s time to wake up.”_

_Regina has been in pieces a long time, and this time she has no choice but to break herself open anew._

_With eyes closed and a gentle touch, the hall loses its last mirror._

_She grimaces a little, the resounding shatter a sharp sting in her ears, breath burning in her lungs at the sight of the broken pieces at her feet. Her vision swims and blurs as the tears that have welled in her eyes finally spill over one last time, and it’s all she can do to turn back toward the center of the hall before she sinks to her knees once more. There is no one left in the hall save for her and the child she carries, no distractions or tricks of light or anchors to bring her comfort. She curls an arm around her middle in an effort to anchor herself and cries quietly in the middle of the room, the glass floor scorching against her feet._

_She takes several long moments to let herself grieve, the simple permission bringing breath to her lungs even as her chest tightens and seizes with every hiccuping sob. She’s tired, she’s so, so tired, but she cannot sleep until she wakes, and she can’t wake until she finds her way out. She has followed every instinct down a harder path, has faced herself down to fragile fractures and sharp edges, and still she finds herself stuck and shattered and alone._

_Regina is alone, but for the first time in what feels like a very, very long time, she does not feel afraid._

_Slowly, her cries begin to quiet and taper off, her vision clearing as she wipes at her eyes. She relaxes the arm wrapped around her middle, fingertips brushing gently over the small swell of her belly. The firelight from the torches catches and bounces off of some of the broken fragments of glass on the floor, catching her eye, but it’s not until she leans in a little closer to examine one of the pieces that she sees the truth in them. She knows those curved edges, would recognize them anywhere, and her eyes drift to the adjacent pile of broken glass to find a matching piece. The glint of forged metal stands out among the shimmer of glass, easily followed from pile to pile as she moves around the hall to pick up the pieces. The trail runs cold at the last pile, but even here there is stark contrast, and her fingers find the reflection of a handle black and slim._

_In the center of hall, she examines the edges of each fragment with care as she tries to piece them together. It takes a bit of rearranging here, an awkward turn or shift or slightly rough edge not fitting quite properly, but in the end she manages to make sense of the image like she would a painting from a puzzle._

_Guilt takes form in the Dark One’s dagger, but it’s no longer a weight she needs to carry._

_She has paid the price of her freedom ten times over._

_And like a moth drawn to a flame, her gaze drags along the image from rounded handle to sharp tip, eyes landing upon the place it’s pointing at long last. There’s nothing tentative at all about the way her fingertips trace the jagged curve of the crack she’d made along the floor in the center of the hall, hesitation gone as instinct leads her forward. She lingers over the small hole she’d made with the tip of one of torches, warmth wrapping its way around her skin, and she is not startled at all by the way her child’s magic sparks out to meet it in kind. There’s a loud creak and a groan as she shifts her weight nearer to the spot and leans closer to the floor. The floor glints and gleams beneath her, blinding her for a moment. Light and dark find balance in her eyes once more, and when she looks back down, she finally finds what she is meant to see._

_Here at last Regina finds her reflection._

_The roar of a fire floods her ears, and all at once she knows what she is meant to do._

_She gives her ache direction._

_Regina’s life is hers and hers alone, and she brings her hands down._

_The crack along the floor fractures open to potential pyriscence and begins to break breath into her lungs, and she doesn’t give a second thought to bringing her hands down hard against the glass floor again. Again and her hands are stinging and warm and wet; again and she feels a fire in her veins; again and her hands spark to life with magic that is not her own. One last time and glass shatters, the floor breaking open beneath her._

_And as Regina falls into fire, she finds that freedom burns._

* * * * *

Regina jolts herself awake with a startled gasp, body spasming a bit just before she hits the ground. She blinks blearily into half-awareness, breathing hard, but she’s barely done more than prop herself up on an elbow before she feels Robin’s fingers brushing gently against her brow. “It’s okay,” he murmurs urgently, voice thick with sleep. “You’re awake, you’re safe, I’m not going to --”

“I know,” Regina breathes, blinking again to be able to see him more clearly. Her vision clears just in time to see confusion cloud his face, and she finds she’s just as jarred as he is by how calm and coherent she seems to be right now. Her heart is still beating hard and fast in her chest -- a traitorous hammering that echoes loudly in her ears -- but she finds her breath coming easily now, the falling sensation fading quickly from her legs. It’s the least off kilter she’s felt upon a return from the Netherworld since all of this started and _still_ Robin is here, every bit the anchor she’s needed him to be. She can feel the tension bleeding out of her muscles as he gently tucks her hair behind her ear, eyes studying her face carefully. “I’m okay,” she says quietly, remembering the way flames had threatened to lick at her skin just before she’d woken up. She turns her face against his hand and closes her eyes, pressing a kiss to his palm and exhaling slowly. “I’m okay.” His thumb sweeps gently across her skin, touch tactile and warm and working to keep her present. Together, they create a cadence to the sound of their breathing; for every breath she takes in, he lets out, in and out and again --

“Is that… _blood_?”

Regina snaps her eyes open just as Robin’s hand falls away from her face. She’s quick to follow the direction of his gaze down to where the bedsheet is poking out just above the duvet, the bright red stain visible even in just the early morning light. Breath turns to ice in her lungs, and for the space of a second, she finds that she cannot move.

 _Not the baby_.

Her heart propels her into action nearly at the same time as Robin, and together, they’re quick and fervent in the way they push the blankets and sheets aside to get a closer look at the source of the blood. Her eyes travel down, first, shifting so she can see where it’s pooled between her legs, and… nothing. Nothing and she shoves at the blankets almost wildly, barely breathing and _this can’t be happening no no no_ and --

Oh.

It’s… her hands.

She exhales slowly as her body relaxes, bringing her hands up to examine the wounds sliced open across her skin. She hadn’t thought -- she’s so rarely retained marks from the Netherworld that it hadn’t even occurred to her she might have caused damage to herself by breaking the floor open with her hands. But she’ll take it -- god, she’ll take something like this a thousand times over rather than suffer the pain of a miscarriage again, and somewhere in her, something… settles. “It’s okay,” she breathes, shifting her body to face Robin’s again. “It’s just my hands. It’s --” She cuts herself off when Robin reaches for her in earnest, and there’s no mistaking the sheer _panic_ in his eyes as he gently grabs hold of her wrists. And she remembers that look: she _knows_ that look, saw it in his eyes on the pier and under the apple tree after she’d told him she was pregnant and in the kitchen downstairs after she’d -- “Robin,” she prompts, quiet but firm. “Robin, I’m fine. I’m not --”

“You’re _bleeding_ ,” he protests, voice shaking, and she can hear the way his breath comes out uneven. “You are _not_ alright.”

“It’s just a few small cuts, it’s nothing --”

“You being hurt is not _nothing_ , Regina,” he argues, flicking his gaze up to meet her eyes.

“Nothing serious,” she elaborates.

It does nothing to quell his concern, though, if the way he makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat is any indication. “C’mere,” he murmurs, gently tugging her toward him as he awkwardly shuffles and shifts off of the bed. She goes with his pull without protest until she swings her legs over the edge of the bed; he rests a hand against her knee to keep her in place. “Just… wait here,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Give me a minute to find something to clean and dress these for you.”

Protest bubbles and rises and dies in her throat in one fell swoop, the sight of his bandaged arm enough to keep her quiet. He’d offered up no protest of his own on Monday morning when she’d insisted upon cleaning and dressing his injury herself, and that -- that had been as much her doing as her hands are. This isn’t his fault, but she can’t help but feel like she owes him this, a little. She’s spent the month pushing and pushing and pushing him away until they were both in pieces, and now that she’s finally managed to pull her own together, she thinks that maybe this is what he needs. By the time her morning sickness had _finally_ caught up to her, it had been beyond clear that Robin does not like to feel useless. Helping her with her damaged hands, she thinks, may keep his own busy enough to curb some of the panic that’s built in the last few minutes.

Just because she can do this on her own doesn’t mean she has to.

Ache settles into her chest at the sight of him rummaging around fretfully in the drawers in the bathroom. She wants to give it direction, wants to push herself to her feet and go to him, but she knows better, she’s learned when his panic storms need space to spiral and when he needs her to pull him into the eye and anchor him. He needs the former first, she thinks, and she swallows her pride down and leaves love in her lungs for the latter.

Things are going to be okay.

He’s still obviously agitated when he settles down in front of her on his knees and sets the supplies he’s gathered onto the mattress next to her, and still, she chooses not to speak. She can see the tremors in his hands as he reaches for a damp washcloth and gauze and medical tape alike and watches him fumble with them for a moment; she has to force herself not to reach for him. She shifts her attention to her hands, instead, and tries to take stock of her injuries. The heels of her palms are badly bruised, the back of her hands smattered in stark scratches. There are a few places along the lines of her palms and in the dips between her knuckles where the sharp edges of glass have cut into her skin, but by far the worst of her injuries are the deep gashes along the sides of her hands where she’d born the brunt of the bashing. Most of the blood has dried on her skin at this point, thick and caked on, but the deepest gashes are still too-fresh, like they could break open and bleed again at any second.

It’s… bad, she realizes, stomach sinking a little, but she still can’t manage to feel the full effect of the pain even without the usual rush of adrenaline she has upon awakening from a visit to the Netherworld. She does hiss a little at the first contact of the wet washcloth against her skin, wincing at the brief blossom of pain, but Robin is exceedingly gentle in the way he handles her, careful and slow and thorough. He lingers a little longer on the deepest of the gashes, breath catching as his eyes narrow in study of them. “You should see a doctor,” he murmurs, reaching for the gauze to wrap around her hands. “I think you might need stitches.”

“I might,” she agrees faintly.

He swallows hard as he reaches for the medical tape -- she can tell by the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat -- and he’s trying, she thinks, not to let his panic give way into anger. His voice isn’t as quiet when he speaks this time, but there’s something close to breaking in it, rough and raw around the edges. “Do I even want to know who did this to you?” he asks, still not looking her in the eyes as he sets the rest of the supplies aside.

And ache and guilt are there, eating away at her edges, but she takes a deep breath and then another, letting love into her lungs. She takes a minute to just… watch him, notices the way his jaw works in aggravation and his fingers flex in frustration. Keeping him occupied has only provided him with a distraction, she realizes, hasn’t quelled his panic or his anger or his fear. But this isn’t -- this isn’t something Archie can help him with. This is fear that has festered for weeks and months, and while Regina’s relief has burned breath back into her lungs, Robin is still _suffocating_. She needs to bring him down with her, needs to be honest with her answers and give him a chance to breathe.

He needs to know things are going to be okay.

Awkwardly, she reaches for him, fingertips barely able to brush against his chin with the way he’s wrapped her hands. But she manages and tips his face toward hers, forcing him to meet her eyes. “I did,” she admits, the confession burning its way up her throat.

Confusion clouds his irises for half a moment before he narrows his eyes, clearly caught off guard and concerned. “ _Why_ would you --”

“It’s not what you think,” she promises, running her thumb over his bottom lip.

It’s only enough to make his anger abate, and where there was heat before there is only anguish now. He pulls back just a little and makes to grab her hands with his own, but he slows halfway through the movement at the sight of her bandaged hands as if he’d forgotten the need to be careful. She can see the way he second-guesses his next move, watches him struggle and hesitate before gently cradling her hands in his own. “Then _please_ ,” he says, desperate and low as he leans in close again, “ _talk to me_. What happened in there tonight?”

She draws in a breath, trying to find the right place to start, but there are dark circles under Robin’s eyes and tears beginning to gather on his lashes and his breathing is shallow and uneven and she can save the details for later, she realizes, in an effort to get to the heart of the matter. “I got out,” she breathes, exhaling heavily.

He blinks rapidly in surprise, but it’s enough to visibly relax him a little, tension melting out of his shoulders. “You what?”

“The Hall of Mirrors,” she explains, patient and calm. “I got out.”

He seems stunned into silence for a brief moment, mouth a little agape as his eyes study her face. She doesn’t blame him; she knows it’s a monumental thing to try and process, particularly without foundation, and there’s just enough disbelief in his eyes that she wonders, for a moment, if maybe he thinks it’s a little too good to be true. And god, she is so _tired_ of bringing the weight of darkness into his life like this. She knows his life wasn’t nearly this stressful before he met her, knows that tragedy has taken up a whole knew meaning to him since he’d opened his heart to her. She wants better for him, wants better for them both, wants a life full of love and light.

Things are going to be okay, and each day can be good if they try.

“You got out,” Robin echoes, recapturing her attention. “How did -- does that --” He stops, nose wrinkled as he clearly tries to make sense of what she’s just told him. “So… David’s advice?”

“Worked like a charm,” she quips, unable to bite back an amused chuckle.

It doesn’t prompt so much as a smile out of him, and her own falters in kind. He’s struggling still, doesn’t have enough of the pieces to match her levity with his own. She takes a breath to bring herself into balance and bites her lip, trying to settle on just how much to share with him now -- just how many pages he needs to make sense of the story. But he prompts answers out of her before she can find a place to start, directing his own ache. “I don’t -- that doesn’t explain how this happened,” he points out, glancing down at her hands that are cupped within his own.

“The long version of that is more complicated,” she sighs, but she’s grateful for the guidance. “The short version is that the floor was made of glass just like the mirrors were. I had to break it open.”

“And you already tried that, once before,” he reminds her. “It didn’t work.”

“I know,” she says simply. “But that wasn’t -- I think this was something I had to do myself.”

It takes him a second to read between the lines. “What -- with your bare hands?” he asks, sounding a little incredulous.

She nods, smile breaking gently onto her face. It’s still not enough, she knows; he’ll need more than this, will need to hear the whole story from start to finish. But she needs this first -- needs his belief in her reassurances that her making it out is a good thing, needs his trust, implicit and unwavering. Slowly, she leans in close again and rests her forehead against his, noses brushing softly. His answering exhale is shaky and uneven and she swallows his ache down, her eyes fluttering shut at the breath shared between them. “I got out, Robin,” she murmurs, needing him on the same page for a moment. “I’m okay.” He inhales sharply at that but doesn’t pull away, and Regina quiets his protest before he even has a chance to voice it. “My hands will heal,” she insists. “I’ll be okay. I will.”

His hands start to tremble a little around hers, but still he doesn’t pull away, nose nuzzled against hers. “You’re sure you won’t go back there -- to the Hall of Mirrors?”

“Positive,” she breathes against his mouth. “The only thing left bound to my soul is yours.”

 _That_ , amazingly, is the thing that prompts a mild laugh out of him, warm and wet. He captures her lips in a kiss, soft and quick, before he moves a hand to curl gently around to the back of her neck. Her pulse picks up pace under his palm, an almost answer to a silent call. She’s calmer now than when she woke -- more centered, more _anchored_ \-- but she also feels more… sensitive, suddenly hyper-aware of every sound and sensation. She hasn’t felt this in her own skin in well over two months, not since summer had begun to burn into autumn and she’d sought freedom from broken bonds. She’s found freedom now from falling into fire, and she wonders, for a moment, if this is the way it’s supposed to feel. It’s as if she can feel the air move around her, can feel every current of blood rushing through her veins as it branches out, reaching for the edges of escape. She exhales, low and slow, feels her skin settle and blood spark in her veins, catching fire --

She gasps as it consumes her, spreading like wildfire as it burns up and out of her skin. Robin pulls away quickly, hands hovering anxiously around hers as she blinks blearily to try and orient herself. “Regina?” he prompts, panic evident in his eyes again as his gaze shifts between her and her hands. “What’s wrong?” She can’t find the words to answer him, can barely even find the breath she needs to steady herself as her hands shake in his, stinging sharp. For one wild moment she thinks of Mother, of magic marked in cuts and bruises that took too long to heal, and in a way this feels much like that, like her body is trying to --

To mend.

 _It’s like a broken bone_ , she’d told Belle at the beginning of the month. _It needs to mend_.

Breath comes easily to Regina’s lungs at that, pain subsiding, and even that is familiar to her now, too. Pain is the _price_ of what she’s just done, but she needs to know for sure, needs to _see_. She’s awkward as she tries to dig her nails under the edges of the medical tape to pry it off, wanting to be quick about it. “Regina,” Robin protests, firm but very much alarmed, “what are you doing?” But again, she doesn’t give him an answer, just continues to pluck and pull at the tape keeping the gauze in place until she can manage to get it loose enough to begin removing it. “Regina, _stop_ ,” Robin urges, hands reaching for her to try and still her movement. “You need to keep these dressed until we can get you to…” He tapers off as the makeshift bandages finally unravel all the way, and neither of them so much as breathes another word as the bloodied gauze falls to the floor.

She doesn’t destroy everything she touches, after all.

“Your hands are healed,” Robin points out needlessly, unable to take his eyes off of them.

“My hands are healed,” Regina says airily, almost laughing.

He still hasn’t quite caught on to what’s happened, though, his brow wrinkled in clear confusion. “Is it -- was that magic?” he asks, half-glancing up at her. She nods a little, unable to fight back a small smile. Again, his gaze drops down to her hands, but it doesn’t stay there; she can see the way it lingers on the curve of her belly for a moment. “I didn’t know the baby’s magic was capable of something like this,” he remarks.

“It’s not,” she counters. He looks back up at her, eyebrows raised in silent question. “Not yet, anyway -- or at least not that I’m aware of. It’s… mine.”

“Yours?” he echoes, lines in his face relaxing a bit in his obvious surprise. “But your magic hasn’t been working since --”

“I know,” she interjects, soft but firm. “But I told you it would more than likely mend -- I’ve known that for weeks.”

His eyes narrow a bit like he’s ready to protest, but she can see the way it builds and dies before it ever reaches his tongue, any argument lost to him as he puts the pieces together. There are still traces of disbelief in his eyes, like he still can’t quite believe the truth of it, can’t accept the good come from something that’s been bad for so long. She can hear it in the hesitation in his voice when he ventures, “Are… you _sure_?”

“Positive,” she sighs. But the look in his eyes doesn’t go away even as he surveys her hands again, fingertips running gently along the sides where just moments ago she’d borne gashes deep enough to need stitches. It’s not enough for him just to see the aftermath, she thinks; he needs more proof. On instinct, she pulls her right hand away -- reserving her left for her child -- and readies herself to conjure fire, but she halts halfway through an inhale, eyes landing upon the bandage wrapped around his left arm.

Guilt douses the spark she’d been building, but she only gives it a moment to weigh down her chest before she lets it go, determined to move forward. She’s exceedingly gentle in the way she reaches for him and prys at the edges of the bandage, unraveling it carefully so she doesn’t irritate the blistered skin beneath. Each breath he takes is measured and matched with one of her own, the same melodic cadence between them as before. His bandages fall to the floor with her own, and she can feel his eyes on her as she pulls him in a little closer. She can’t go back and change what she’s done, but she can set things right, and it’s with love in her lungs that she draws in a breath and calls her magic forward, hands glowing over his skin. She’s near reverent in the way she moves her hands in circles around his arm, skin a silky slide as each section of his arm is healed. Robin doesn’t alter his breathing at all, doesn’t make a sound or give any indication that he’s in pain, and there’s something reverent about him, too, in the way he watches her work her magic.

They’re both quiet when she’s done. He doesn’t move for a minute, eyes sweeping over his skin, and when he finally does, his movements are slow, experimental. She watches as he carefully flexes his fingers and rolls his wrist in a circular motion, arm twisting one way and then the other as if to see if the skin will break open or sting. This feels less like disbelief to her, though; it feels much more like things are started to sink in for him, but still she finds him hesitating. “You didn’t have to do that,” he murmurs mildly.

Under any other circumstances she’d probably roll her eyes at him, but the tension is still relatively thick in the air; she can feel it around the edges of her magic, a delicate thing she’s almost afraid to touch. Carefully, she reaches for his hand again and grasps it with her own, seeking to tether him to her. “I know,” she replies, quiet. “I wanted to.”

He’s slow to shift his gaze back to her face, still studying her carefully. Her breath hitches a little, heart picking up pace as he reaches out his other hand to tuck her hair behind her ear, thumb sweeping up and over the apple of her cheek and down her jaw line. And after a long moment, she sees clarity blossom in his eyes, slow and steady and sure. “You really did get out of there, didn’t you?” he asks, voice thick with emotion, and Regina’s heart finds its regular rhythm with ease.

Robin has always seen _her_.

“I really did,” she assures him, startled by the way tears sting at her eyes. She inhales sharply to quell them and presses a kiss to his palm, smiling against his skin. “I’m okay, Robin, I promise. You know I’d tell you if I wasn’t -- at least in some capacity.”

The relative quickness with which he blinks rapidly and nods as he pulls his hand away from her face is enough to have her heart fit to burst with affection for him. He trusts her, she knows, but this means more to her -- to have him trust so implicitly that she would be honest with him about her problems and her pain. She hasn’t exactly made it easy for him in recent weeks, has pushed him away to the point of suffocating him, but even at his -- their lowest, Robin’s trust has fallen in line with his devotion and never once wavered. He’d been at her side on Monday when she’d been terrified and desperate; he’d been there when she’d needed him most. “I know, I know,” he mumbles quickly. He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a breath, exhales slow and heavy and doesn’t quite look her in the eye as he fumbles for words. “I don’t -- after everything we’ve been through, I can believe that. It’s just --” He cuts himself off, still clearly unable to articulate what it is, exactly, that he’s struggling with.

She doesn’t reach for the hand he’s pulled away, but she keeps the one he’s still holding anchored in his, thumb sweeping soothingly across the back of his hand. “It’s just what?” she prompts gently, willing to wait him out a little.

“It’s just… a bit much,” he explains, and it’s clear by the way his voice is strained that he’s having trouble forcing the words out. “I don’t -- I know you’ll explain more of it later, what happened and everything. It’s just…”

“Hard to believe?” she guesses, trying to fill in the blanks for him.

But Robin shakes his head, finally meeting her eyes. He’s the closest to crying he’s been since they woke up -- chin trembling and jaw working furiously to keep the tears at bay. “You were in there so long,” he breathes, and his voice is so, so quiet. “Even on the nights you haven’t gone, it’s been…”

“Difficult,” she supplies, and ache burns and bleeds around the edges of her heart, but she holds onto it for a moment longer. Not yet.

He doesn’t contest the word choice but he doesn’t outright agree with it, either. “I haven’t wanted to sleep,” he says, and for all that he means it as a confession, this is very much something she already knows. “I haven’t wanted to sleep because I don’t know if you’re still going to be here when I wake up in the morning, and I haven’t wanted to wake up because I know that the first thing I’ll do is worry. And to think we’re free of that, to know you won’t go back, it’s… overwhelming,” he chokes out, and _there_ the tears are, brimming and spilling with surprising ease. Ache squeezes tight around her heart but she keeps it at bay, not yet, not yet, and Robin’s ache, in turn, breaks open like a dam. “That sounds _mad_ , doesn’t it?” he mutters, barking out a wet laugh as he adjusts his hand in hers. “The thought that I could actually feel _relieved_ is overwhelming right now, that’s just --”

“Come here,” she murmurs softly, tugging him toward her. He goes with her pull easily, pushing between her thighs and pressing himself firmly against her body. His free hand fitfully clutches her sleep shirt much the same way her own had done in the Hall of Mirrors, and she lets instinct guide her. She can do what no one had been able to do for her in the Netherworld, can provide him with comfort -- something steady and sure to hold onto. She wraps her arms around him with ease, anchors a hand on the back of his head and lets the other rub across the expanse of his back. She feels him let out of a burst of air against her neck, and another, and then she feels the wet warmth of his tears against the skin of her neck. And Regina doesn’t wait a second longer; gently, she presses her lips to Robin’s temple and gives her ache direction.

This is such a stark contrast to how her awakenings from the Netherworld have usually gone, an immediate, instinctive role reversal that she thinks should throw her off balance. But it doesn’t, not really, not when she’d done this before. She’d done it just a few nights ago, had lulled him to sleep with the sweep of her fingers along his spine, their legs intertwined. She’d done it last week under the apple tree, had called his soul back to hers, and she’d -- She’d done it back when all of this had started, when she’d first come back from the Hall of Mirrors and Robin had woken from slumber gasping for air, disoriented and near-panic.

She’s anchored him, too.

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see the sun start to come up over the horizon in the corner of the window. The light it bathes the room in is muted by the smattering of clouds gathering in the sky -- she’d expect nothing less, on All Hallow’s Eve, to be honest -- but it’s enough to bring warmth to the room, tension beginning to dissipate. Even in the shadows of light, Regina knows that things will be okay. It’s something she could easily take for granted -- she has the heart of the most resilient, after all -- but with Robin in pieces in her arms, she finds it damn near impossible to even consider. For all that she had to be the one to break herself out of the Hall of Mirrors, this has never been just about her. She’d known that from the start, had it proven to her time and time again with each visit and return.

She hasn’t been the only one haunted.

She feels the pain of that deeply now as Robin curls in closer, cries beginning to taper off. Things had felt... fragile between them on Monday morning when she’d confessed to seeing him in the Hall of Mirrors. Neither of them had been particularly explicit in why she’d found the vision of him to be believable at one point in time, but he’d known, she’d seen it in his eyes. Even then, he hadn’t faltered, had seen beyond the mess of her mind and the twisted tricks of the Netherworld into the heart of her soul. Regina wonders for a brief moment if he needs something similar now -- faith in her devotion to him when he’s the one in pieces.

She suddenly finds herself very glad he hadn’t let her say it on Monday morning. She had been _lost_ a few days ago -- they both had, drowning in darkness to the point of suffocating. Things have shifted a bit -- Robin is the one aimless and in need of an anchor, now -- but for the first time in months, they finally have the opportunity to breathe.

And Regina can say it in the light.

The words roll off of her tongue with surprising ease. “I love you,” she murmurs softly.

He goes very still in her arms for a fraction of a second before she feels the tension start to bleed out of his body. He’s quiet for half a moment, sniffing a little before he pulls back just enough to look her in the eyes. There’s something all too knowing in his eyes, equal parts bemusement and gratitude. He knew already how she feels about him -- he’d told her as much on Monday morning -- but now he _knows_ , has the weighted reassurance of hearing it out loud when she’d buried the words in a silent grave for so long.

And still, she cannot help the way her heart skips a beat in her chest when the corner of his mouth quirks up into a smile. “And I you,” he offers up in reply, voice warm and much more even than it had been a few moments ago.

True love is strength and it endures -- she’s more sure of that now than ever -- but the air in the room doesn’t feel wholly lighter just yet. She can feel the way tension has faded away at the edges of her magic, less delicate and fragile than before, but there’s still such _longing_ in his eyes, the weight of worry never really gone away. She’s not sure it ever will for either of them, but she remembers what the mayor had said in the Hall of Mirrors, remembers the way she had to leave pieces of herself behind.

She -- _they_ can only move forward, and it’s now, in the light of dawn, that Regina finds a perfect example of exactly _why_ it’d been so important to pick up the pieces of her past. They’ve known one another for over a year and a half at this point, but they haven’t been together anywhere near that long. And while Regina knows that the progression of their relationship isn’t really considered fast by Enchanted Forest standards, she also knows that there’s so much they haven’t shared with one another.

There are secrets they’ve kept too long.

She only knows her own, but there are so _many_ she’s buried down deep that she’s not even entirely sure where she would begin. There isn’t a need for all of it today -- they don’t have the time, anyway, with the carnival tonight -- but she thinks that starting today is a path she’s meant to take. Regina has pieces and pages of her own, and putting them into place, she thinks, will prompt Robin into filling in the rest of their story with pages of his own.

Her eyes fall to the bloodied bandages on the floor, and here, she thinks, is a place to start. They owe one another these stories, at least. She’d told him, last week under the apple tree, that she’d been anxious about this pregnancy, but she hadn’t told him _why_. His panic upon the sight of blood on the sheets this morning, though similar on the surface, was ultimately very different from her own. He’d been concerned about her -- he’s _always_ concerned about her -- but she’d feared the loss of another child and the broken pieces a miscarriage has always left behind. Still, she hasn’t forgotten the way he’d tensed up once his joy over the news of her pregnancy had started to fade, hasn’t forgotten the way he’d started to tremble in her arms or the too-rapid rise and fall of his chest as panic overtook him. That had been more than just his concern over what was happening to her in the Netherworld, she’s sure, but he too has kept quiet in the last week and a half about the root of his anxiety where her pregnancy is concerned.

Robin has secrets of his own.

She thinks that now may be the time to let them go. They need to find their footing now that she’s moved on from the Hall of Mirrors, need to make sure they’re on the same page going forward. She’s okay -- she’s made it further into this pregnancy than she has any of the ones that came before and she’s _okay_. She clings to that knowledge now as she faces the prospect of telling him about her past, holds onto hope in facing the fear of darkness where her anxiety takes root. And perhaps if she takes the lead here -- if she’s the one to make the first move forward, then Robin will inevitably follow.

They do not have to do this alone.

Determined, Regina takes a breath to steady herself and reaches out to gently brush back Robin’s hair, smiling fondly at him. It’s getting long, she realizes, an odd sort of growth in tandem with her own. He’ll probably want to get a cut soon or a trim at the very least; she thinks it’ll bother him, otherwise. “Why don’t you,” she suggests, fingertips dancing delicately across his brow, “go downstairs and get breakfast started? I can clean up in here, and then maybe we can start… talking,” she settles on, hoping that’s enough for him to make his own decision.

Something shifts and flickers in his eyes in recognition of what it is that she’s asking of him -- a mixture of anxiety and fear -- but it’s brief, gone almost as soon as it had blossomed, and in its place Regina finds a gentle warmth in the way he regards her. There’s a touch of fondness in his own smile as he leans in close and closes the distance between them once more, his hand a warm and steady weight upon her thigh. “I think that’s long overdue,” he murmurs, “but I’m happy to meet you halfway.” She grins into the kiss he steals, matching his bitten lip with her own when he pulls away. “Green apples with your breakfast then, darling?”

Regina just barely refrains from rolling her eyes, equal parts bemused and annoyed. “The baby would appreciate that, yes,” she teases, brushing her nose against his, and his laugh fills up the air around them, a happy, hopeful thing. His answering murmur of _as you wish_ is breathed onto her brow with a kiss. She gently squeezes his hand in kind, a reassuring parting of the ways, but he brings his lips to the skin there too in what she deduces is a way to make up for not quite being able to do it earlier when she’d been injured.

She does not destroy everything she touches.

He leaves her without further fuss or fanfare and makes his way downstairs, every line in his body considerably less rigid and riddled with anxiety than before. The fondness in her smile lingers even after he’s gone, and it’s with steady hands that Regina finally sets to work cleaning up the mess they’ve made. She makes quick work of putting the extra supplies away and gathering the remnants of the tainted bandages to throw away in the bathroom garbage can. Stripping the duvet and sheets off the bed takes her a little longer as she tries to survey the damage and plan accordingly to salvage what she can. Magic could fix this easily, she knows, but there’s something altogether more comforting about being able to do something like this herself. She’d done it for twenty-eight years and a handful of months during the first Dark Curse, had found serenity in her solitude in the quiet hum of the laundry room. It’ll help bring her back into balance this morning, she knows, to use her hands to make something clean.

She half-glances over at her nightstand as she reaches for one of the corners of the fitted sheet, but she does a double-take, hands hovering in the air for a moment before she reaches out to pull open the top drawer. She’s gentle and reverent with her touch as she unearths page twenty-three from the nightstand drawer. Slowly, she sinks down at the edge of the bed, taking care to smooth out some of the creases as her fingertips trace the outline of their figures. She remembers the promise she’d made to herself in the Hall of Mirrors about having this framed, and she wonders idly, for a moment, whether she’d rather have it on her nightstand or hanging up on the wall. It matters little in the end, though; she’d managed to carry the spirit of the page’s promise with her, after all -- even without Robin’s sneaking and subtle reminders.

With breath in her lungs and hope in her hands, Regina finds that she is finally, _finally_ ready to move forward. And while she is free from her eternal middle, this isn’t her happy ending.

It’s her beginning.

* * * * *


	9. November 18, 2013 [Epilogue]

Regina has so rarely perused the items on display in the pawnshop over the years -- there’s almost nothing of interest to her here -- save for the one time she’d gone to Belle for helping in searching for a way to defeat Zelena, and even then Regina had done little more than ransack the place in desperation. But the idle perusal of Gold’s collection is a distraction she welcomes readily now, each encased glint and gleam more than enough to catch her eye and calm her nerves. She can feel the undercurrent of the baby’s magic thrumming under her skin, an ever-present reminder that she needs to be more mindful of her emotions. So she adjusts the strap of her purse on her shoulder and focuses her attention to the display cases near the front of the shop, waiting for Gold to emerge in answer to the bell above the front door.

She passes over books and brooches, lockets and dolls and heirlooms alike. She has a faint admiration for their craftsmanship -- there’s nothing in this world she’s seen that quite compares to the intricate, detailed designs and handiwork of the Enchanted Forest -- but nothing really captures her attention until her eyes stray toward the back corner of one of the cases where a small box is open for display. It’s not the only piece of jewelry on display -- it’s not even the most well-kept piece even in just this case alone -- but there’s something almost… familiar about the ring nestled into the cushion pocket of the box. It’s a very simple piece, really: a small, round opal set within a plain rose gold band. It’s not as if she’s seen it before; Mother had never owned anything quite so pedestrian, Leopold had preferred large, ornate, glittering pieces, and for her part, Regina had shied away from anything this delicate during her reign as monarch. Still, it’s familiar to her in a way she can’t quite place, and the current thrumming under her skin shifts and ebbs into something much more gentle and calm.

“Regina.”

Just the _sound_ of his voice is enough to set her on edge again. She hasn’t seen him all autumn but she has very much _felt_ his presence in a gaze that lurks in the shadows and settles guilt upon her shoulders. She can feel it creeping in around the edges again now even when he’s on the other side of the room, even without looking. She expects the way magic coils at her core, instinctive and protective, but she takes a breath, and then another, and the thought she has is singular and maternal to the last.

_Let me protect you this time, little one._

The baby’s magic settles.

Shoulders back and head held high, one last breath to steady herself, and Regina forces a tight, albeit cordial smile as she turns around to face him. “Gold,” she greets, just barely managing to keep ice out of her tone. He merely arches an eyebrow at her from where he’s perched upon a stool behind the back line of cases, bony fingers curling around the edges of the case in front of him. She adjusts her grip on the handle of her purse -- the only sign of discomfort she’ll allow herself to give -- and steels herself for the inevitable barb or two she knows is coming.

But he’s… quiet, oddly so, and it makes her uneasy. He’s always been one to prod and needle her with the worst words in order to get a rise out of her, and that fact that he’s not, now -- the fact that he’s not channeling any of the rage or resentment she’s sure he harbors toward her into something meant to get under her skin -- has her nearly narrowing her eyes in skeptical confusion. But it would be another tell on her part and that is something she will not give him if she can possibly help it, so instead she matches his raised eyebrow with one of her own. “What,” Regina prompts, dry and derisive, “no questions or quips for me today?”

Gold narrows his eyes at her, instead. “I’m not sure I see the point,” he counters, fingers flexing against the glass. “You seem unable to keep up the silent treatment for more than a couple of months, and I’m not sure there’s enough space in here for all of your rage no matter what I move around. What you did to the windows on your last visit was proof enough of both of that.”

And _there_ he is.

“Straight to the point then?” she sighs. His lips thin into a line at that, the only answer he’ll seem to give her, so it’s with rapidly thinning patience and a small amount of trepidation that Regina takes a step forward.

She doesn’t miss the way he recoils away from her a little, and it’s enough to give her pause in her steps. Rumplestiltskin is afraid of her, but this time the Evil Queen is nowhere to be found to take delight in his fear. Summer is long gone, burnt into orange and ash and gray, and while there is still something slightly selfish in why she’s come here today, she has not come here looking to take what’s hers again.

She has come to protect -- and to give.

Regina forces her hand to relax around the handle of her purse and tries not to overthink the way she welcomes Mother’s voice in her head. _Chin up, shoulders back, stand up straight. The appearance of confidence is half the battle._ “I’ve come to make a deal.”

Gold stares at her rather blankly for a moment, clearly waiting for some other shoe to drop, but when she offers up no other explanation, his expression shifts into something much more dangerous and dark. And inexplicably, he smiles at her, but it’s tight around the edges, glittering with ghosts of the crocodile. “Not interested,” he grits out. “You can show yourself out. _Please_ ,” he adds, and for all that his pleases have lost their punch, Regina almost feels compelled to obey.

Almost.

She takes another breath to steady herself, but she doesn’t move from her spot. “I’m not saying I didn’t deserve that,” she says, “but just… hear me out.”

“Why would I do that?” he muses, voice full of false civility. “A deal usually implies that both parties have something of value to bring to the table. The only thing I want, dearie, is something we both know you’re not willing to give up, so there’s really no point in wasting any more of my time.”

“I can’t give you what you want, I’ll grant you that much,” she allows.

“You won’t,” he throws back quickly, his tone short and thin. “There’s a difference. Own up to it rather than try and pawn it off as something _noble_.”

She works her jaw a little, aggravated, but still she manages to keep most of her composure. She has a plan, here, has a way to get him to listen and maybe even agree to this. She just needs to keep his attention. “I can’t give you what you want,” she reiterates, unwilling to budge on her choice of word there, “but I can give you the next best thing.”

“Which is what?” he drawls, just shy of snapping at her.

Her fingers flex around the handle of her purse, itching to dip inside to reach for the magical copy of page twenty-three she carries around with her since framing the original. But she resists the temptation; knowing it’s there will have to be enough for now. One last deep breath, and the hope in her lungs pushes her forward. “A promise,” she says, striving to keep her voice even, “that I won’t use it -- the dagger -- against you.”

Gold doesn’t roll his eyes at that, though she can tell it’s a near thing. “Promises are just empty words, dearie. We’ve both had more than enough proof of that over the years.”

He’s not… wrong, not entirely, but the sentiment doesn’t fully land with her, not the way it used to; it doesn’t quite settle into the same spaces as before. She’s had her fair share of broken promises over the years -- Snow and Mother chief among them -- but her experiences have been different, in recent years. For every promise broken, there seems to be a new one to match -- a brighter future around every turn where she’s missed them before. It’s Robin she thinks of first -- of devotion and vows and a heart beating in her chest, of second chances and a soul tethered to her own -- but he is not alone in promises kept. She has her whole family, now, a promise implicit in that bond alone. And it’s that, funnily enough -- this odd little degree of distinction that separates her from Gold in their ideology -- that makes her realize she might be approaching this all wrong. She’d walked into this conversation with ammunition disguised as arguments -- weapons to win a war. But this isn’t even so much a battle or a fight as it is a negotiation, and if she wants Gold to see her as something other than his enemy, then perhaps, Regina thinks, she should stop treating him like one as well.

Maybe this is a game that’s not meant to be won.

It’s less instinct and more intuition that guides her, now, and she relaxes her shoulders a bit -- a slow removal of armor. “You know,” she muses, “there was a time when I would’ve believed that implicitly.”

“And now?” he prompts, still sounding patronizing but seeming somehow unable to help himself from pursuing the conversation.

“Now I think nothing’s quite that simple,” she says, corner of her mouth twitching up into a small smile. “I think it depends on two things -- the person making the promise, and the extenuating circumstances around it."

Again, Gold arches an eyebrow, but this time he levels her with a look that could almost be mistaken for bemusement. She knows better, though, knows what it means when his lips curve up into this particular smile. “If we take the former into consideration, you’ve never been very consistent with staying true to your word now, have you, Your Majesty?”

It’s meant to get under her skin, the title of address -- and it does, a little, calls up the memory of her rather infuriating encounter with Blue last month and the way her child’s magic had fractured and spiraled in protest. But where he uses his words as weapons, she will not -- not anymore, not like this, not if she wants to keep moving forward. She has very little patience left -- had very little to begin with at all when it comes to him, honestly -- but she doubles down in her efforts to try and maintain it. “I suppose that’s true enough, but you and I have had enough dealings with each other in the past to know what it takes to make our words have weight.”

It takes a moment for him to read between the lines and the implication to land, but when it does, there’s absolutely no denying the spark of curiosity in his eyes. “You want to make a _deal_.” And just like that, his interest is not only caught and kept -- it’s piqued. The darker part of her reacts to that first -- she’s got him right where she wants him, after all -- but she gives it the space she knows it needs, lets it breathe and settle and fade into the background before something lighter takes its place. If Gold is even _slightly_ entertaining the notion of agreeing to the deal she’s here to offer him, then the hope in Regina’s lungs is not misguided or misplaced.

She is both light and dark, and she still has a chance to move forward.

Gold leans forward a little, resting his arms across the top of the case as he studies her face. He’s trying to gain the upper hand here, she can tell -- trying to intimidate her -- but she doesn’t so much as lean back or shift uncomfortably under his gaze. There’s a hint of recognition in his eyes, like she’s reminded him of something, but in the end he only asks, “And what exactly is it that you want in exchange for such a… promise?”

It takes everything in her not to smile in satisfaction, but she can still feel the Evil Queen there, playing at her lips. “Do you remember,” she ventures, resuming her crossing of the room, “when I asked for your help after Emma broke the first curse?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific,” he says, and if he weren’t so carefully guarded, she swears he might almost be laughing at her.

If he weren’t right to make the request, she thinks it’d bother her a lot more than she’s willing to admit. “When Emma and Snow were in the Enchanted Forest,” she clarifies, ignoring the way his eyebrows shoot up at the use of Snow’s name, “and Henry was… waking up with burns on his arms,” she says, her tongue suddenly careful with the words, “I came to you for help. For him.”

Judging by the way his eyes immediately shift to her arm, she figures he’s smart enough to read between the lines. But the smile he turns on her is different from the last, this one much more malicious, and while Regina didn’t exactly expect him to be _sympathetic_ , the idea that he still might find delight in her pain is one that makes her skin crawl. She finds herself suddenly very grateful that he’s unable to be as impulsive with her as he used to be. Her fingers curl tight around the handles of her purse in an effort not to reach down and wrap an arm around her middle. When Gold’s eyes meet hers again, however, there’s something all too knowing in his irises; he can see her nerves. “Out of the frying pan and into the fire, eh dearie?”

“You know how it works,” she throws back, leveling him with a look. “You know what you gave him.”

“That I do,” he admits, leaning forward a little as he steeples his fingers together in a way that makes her feel far, far younger than she will ever be comfortable with. “But even without the inflation that comes with a house call, the price for such a service seems a bit… unbalanced,” he ventures, and there is something so, so careful in the way he’s looking at her. It’s almost as if… he’s trying to figure her out, understand how her mind works. And rather than leaving her feeling unsettled, Regina finds that she’s actually a little… proud of that. Rumplestiltskin has often had a better handle on the way her mind works than even she does at times -- than even Mother had, in some instances. The idea that he can’t quite figure her out now -- that he hasn’t managed to fully guess at her strategy here -- makes her feel a little less like the girl who’d summoned him in the dead of night with a butchered version of his name. “I can’t imagine you’d be willing to make such a promise for something as trifling as a trinket such as that.”

The small bubble of pride in her chest deflates almost instantly, bringing her steps to a halt just shy of the row of cases between them. She should’ve known better, really, than to think herself one step ahead of him and no, no, _no_. This is not a game, not one she’s playing to win, and no matter how much she _despises_ him for his ability to get under her skin and make her doubt her initial instincts, she cannot let his intuition and instincts drive her own.

She is bound to him no more, and her life is hers and hers alone.

“I have conditions,” she says at last, and she fully expects the dry, derisive chortle that makes its way out of his mouth. But he doesn’t interrupt her, doesn’t offer up any sort of dry biting remark; he merely waves his hand in her direction as if to say _on with it, then_. “The potion you put inside the pendant you gave Henry last year -- I want you to teach me how to make it. That way if something should happen to it, I can duplicate the potion myself.”

“Without any additional assistance from me,” he tacks on after a beat, and it’s clear he will not be taken for a fool. But his expression softens a bit around the edges, just enough to make him appear less malicious, and there’s something almost… _fond_ in his tone when he speaks again. “You always were one for potions,” he says, and maybe, she thinks, he doesn’t always see her as his enemy, either. “Do you need a balm as well,” he asks, nodding toward her arm, “for the burns?”

“Um, no,” she admits, her own gaze dropping to her arm. She can’t see her skin for all the layers she’d donned today, but the memory of waking up earlier this morning is still relatively fresh in her mind. She twists her arm a little and rolls her wrist to remind herself that her skin no longer bears blistering marks, and for a moment, she thinks of Robin, of hands that heal and a promise to see this plan through. “No,” she says again, glancing back up at Gold. “I can heal myself just fine. I just want to try to prevent myself from getting burned again.” She regrets the last set of words the second they’re out of her mouth, wants to take them back and replace them with ones that are far less auspicious and revealing.

But Gold -- Rumple’s expression doesn’t quite change the way Regina expects it to. Instead, she finds the narrowing of his eyes to be full of the same sort of discernment she’d thought she’d seen earlier. He’s reading between the lines, that’s obvious, but she thinks that what she’s trying to conceal is not the thing he’s seeing. And this time his study of her _does_ leave her feeling unsettled, fighting not to squirm as she awaits his approval on no, no, _no_ , fuck. “Sorry to disappoint,” she says darkly, and _there_ the Evil Queen is, burning and blistering her way up Regina’s throat like an untamed wildfire in immediate defense of her.

Regina let her linger at the surface, just in case.

“Your magic has returned, then?”

“Yes,” she answers slowly, startled but unable to suppress the little surge of satisfaction that jolts into her sternum. It’s an old question, one he’s asked more than once before -- usually when her body’s finally recovered enough from a miscarriage -- but there is something very different in it now. His question is the same, as is her answer, but where she’d been eager before -- young and aimless and seeking his approval -- she finds she’s almost… smug now. There’s a bit of the Evil Queen in that -- delight at his dissatisfaction -- and it doesn’t surprise her, not with the way Regina’s allowed her to lie in wait under her skin in anticipation. But where there is dark there is also light, and the pride Regina feels at her magic mending -- on her own terms, no less, without his bond to guide her -- burns, alone and bright. She’d been so afraid a few months ago when she’d last come here; the prospect of losing her magic as some sort of sacrifice she’d have to make in order to be free of him was one that left her feeling aimless and adrift.

Even in all of her desperation, Regina has not lost this piece of herself -- not to him, not at all.

“Yes,” she says again, voice a little more steady and sure this time. “Yes, it has.”

And just like that, any armor or walls he may have removed in the last few minutes are right back up, eyes growing cold as his expression hardens and his lips thin into a line again. “How fortunate for you,” he grits out, voice dripping with false sincerity, and the earlier maliciousness is back in his tone, biting and angry as he leans back and rests his arms flat against the countertop again.

She wishes she was more surprised by sudden turnabout at the news, wishes she could be above the way it stings, but she isn’t, she can’t. It’s not as though she expected him to be _happy_ for her, but she’s not sure if she was anticipating him being this thoroughly… disappointed. Of course Gold wouldn’t have wanted her to regain her magic after what she did to him; how could she have ever thought otherwise and no, no, fuck -- _no_. She wants to hate him for this -- _really_ hate him for the way he toys with her expectations and emotions like this -- but even with the Evil Queen trying to claw her way up to the surface again, anger is not an emotion that Regina seems able to give into at the moment.

Maybe he won’t ever see her as anything other than his enemy after all.

Exhaustion settles into the spaces of her lungs, but before she can even try to move things forward, he’s speaking again, the false civility in his voice carrying a bit of an edge. “If that’s all you require then, dearie, perhaps we should --”

“That’s not all,” she snaps, cutting him off. And the anger is there, along with the Queen -- anger and frustration and exhaustion -- but there is more there too, building behind her lungs. There is fierce fire burning in her veins, reminiscent of the way she’d shattered and risen in the middle of the diner this past summer. It fuels the fight within her -- because that’s what this is now, a goddamn battle in the middle of a war that he’s insisting on pursuing -- and pushes her forward, each step closing the last of the gap between them. She feels the instinct to protect flare up and coil at her core and it’s _hers_ this time, a counter and balm against any residual anxiety her child might feel. “I have one more condition.”

“Which is what?” he bites back darkly.

Slowly, Regina grips the edge of the case between them, knuckles turning white, and she is monarch and mayor and mother alike as she lowers her voice and narrows her eyes, meeting his steady gaze with one of her own. “If you so much as lift a finger to try and harm anyone ever again, all bets are off.” Gold’s jaw jumps a little as he works it in immediate irritation, but she ignores it and presses on, not wanting to give him the chance to try and find a way around it. “I mean it,” she says thinly, every bit a warning. “No monsters, no mayhem, no murder. No technicalities, no getting other people to get your dirty work for you. No loopholes. Not one. Is that clear?”

“You ask me that as if I have a choice, dearie.”

She flexes her fingers against the glass and tries not to let her agitation show. “I am not forcing you into making this deal,” she grits out.

“And I would be a fool not to,” he reasons, remarkably more calm than he was a moment ago but still clearly angry with her. “Don’t mistake me for a simpleton, Regina, it doesn’t suit you.”

He breaks eye contact then, starts to shift a little on his stool, but she leans in a little closer and forces him to look at her again, not quite finished yet. She _needs_ this, needs the validity and weight of his words to reassure her before she moves forward. She knows all too well the games he likes to play -- it’s why she’d imposed the last condition to begin with -- and after all the trouble she’s gone through to essentially emancipate herself from him, this is one thing in which she will not allow herself to make a mistake. “Do we have a deal?”

He’s quiet for half a moment before answering her. “I’ll draw up a contract,” he agrees, and the exhaustion that had weighed down her lungs a few minutes ago has taken up residence in his throat, it seems, his voice sounding rough and raw. “I can get what I need for that as well as a few other things we’ll need from the back. In the meantime,” he suggests, gesturing toward the back corner, “you’ll find the equipment we’ll need in one of the chests over there. Most of the ingredients you’ll need to start will be in those drawers there,” he adds, indicating a desk tucked away along the wall that she’s fairly certain she’s never even _seen_ in here before. “And the book with the recipe for the potion is on that shelf up there,” he finishes, condescension creeping into his tone. “Dark blue, runes along the spine. You can’t miss it.”

Her eyes do another sweep over the areas he’s indicated before she shifts her gaze back to him. “Fine,” she mutters, not bothering to hide her irritation even as she pushes away from the case. “I’ll… get started.” His needling is at an end though, it seems, or is at the very least on hold while they part ways for a few moments. He hardly spares her a second glance before he makes to slide off of the stool he’s been perched upon, one hand gripping the edge of the case counter tight as his other reaches for -- “Your cane,” she murmurs, rooted to the spot. “You’re still… using it.” Her eyes flick back toward him to find him suddenly still, and even with his profile in shadow, she thinks she can see traces of regret in his expression. He looks… not embarrassed but caught, and she recognizes the emotion he’s burying with surprising ease.

He’s angry that he’s shown her weakness.

“Your magic hasn’t returned,” she breathes, and Rumplestiltskin _snaps_.

“No,” he says sharply, fingers flexing in spasms against the edge of the case, “it hasn’t. Unfortunately,” he adds, glancing back at her with complete and utter _contempt_ in his eyes, “I’m still here. That part of things, at least, still seems to be working.” Regina inhales sharply at that, she can’t help it; it’s the most unguarded he’s been during her entire visit -- the most unguarded he’s been since she was last here. He’d _begged_ her not to go through with breaking their magical bond back then (just the other month, it’s only been weeks, it hasn’t been that long at all), but there is something much _darker_ hidden between the lines of his words this time around.

But he doesn’t even give her the space of another breath to so much as _think_ about what he may have meant by that. His jaw works once, twice before he’s turning away from her once more and descending from the stool much more quickly than someone with his… indisposition probably should. He reaches roughly for the handle of his cane, practically snatches it up, and even as he hobbles away from her toward the back room, she can hear the way his breathing has gone heavy and sharp. He disappears around the corner, and Regina exhales slowly, pieces starting to fit into place.

In Gold’s wake, Regina recognizes the bitter malice in him for what it really is: he’s _jealous_.

She’s not even sure where to _begin_ in terms of trying to process that, so it’s with a heavy sigh that she turns away from the doorway he’s passed through and focuses her attention on the task at hand instead. She sets her purse down and out of the way, sheds her heavier coat and drapes it across the top of a case she knows they won’t be using. She feels... off-kilter, out of her skin and more keyed up than she was even when she working up the nerve to come over here earlier this morning. She rolls her shoulders back and runs a hand through her hair in an effort to clear her head and quell her discontent, hands anchoring at her hips --

She hisses quietly in pain as magic sparks out of her left hand, a too-belated reaction to the way her emotions have run the gauntlet since entering the shop. She shakes the sting out of her hand and flexes feeling back into her fingers, forcing herself to take a deep breath or two in an effort to curb her anxiety and agitation. “I know, baby,” she murmurs, rubbing the palm of her other hand along the curve of her belly. “I’m sorry. He just… gets under my skin sometimes.” There’s a slight sparking at her fingertips, electric light dancing upon her skin, but it’s brief and barely there, fizzling out quickly. She thinks that maybe the baby is a little tired of all of this, too. “I’m sorry,” she sighs again, soft and slow, and with each breath she takes, she feels the surge of her child’s magic peter off into its usual calm current.

She needs to do _more_ , though, needs something beyond the simple calm control over her emotions that will quell the wild and unpredictable nature of her child’s magic. She hasn’t had an episode like this since she got out of the Hall of Mirrors -- not even when she’d begun couples sessions with Robin or had her monthly check-up with Whale last week, not even this morning when she’d woken up with burns on her arm. She’s not surprised that being in Gold’s presence has set her off enough to cause her child’s magic to manifest, but it doesn’t make her any less displeased. Keeping her emotions in check is difficult enough with how hormonal she’s been, but it’s the only way she knows how to combat the stress she unwittingly brings upon her child.

Regina wants to do better -- for both of them. It’s why she’s here, after all.

She needs distraction from the discontent, needs to settle back into her skin and feels her own fire within her veins. Being able to keep busy and work is usually enough of a distraction on most days; learning something new should actively engage her mind long enough that the uncomfortable buzz of anxiety should fade. She needs _this_ , needs what she came for beyond just the practicality behind it, so it’s with one last gentle rub along her belly that Regina murmurs another apology and shifts her attention back to following instructions.

She takes her time in unearthing the items Gold’s directed her toward, moving toward the chest in the corner first. She _tsk_ s in disapproval as she unearths the equipment they’ll need for potion making and finds it covered in a thin layer of dust. Magic or not, it’s beneath him to let something get this filthy, especially something this fragile and -- around these parts, anyway -- rare. She takes an extra few minutes to search for a cloth so that she can clean each piece of glass in the set before she begins assembling them on top of the back row of cases. She wonders, idly, if maybe they shouldn’t be doing this out in the open -- they hadn’t before -- but the worry disappears almost as quickly as it had come.

Regina has nothing to hide, and if Gold does, well.

She _has_ a last resort; she just hopes she doesn’t have to use it.

She huffs out a half-bemused noise at the thought -- _quarter in the jar_ \-- before she turns her attention to the open shelving along the wall, fingers dancing delicately along the spines lined up before settling over the lone dark blue cover he’d mentioned. There _are_ runes along the spine, but it’s not until she’s plucked the book from its spot and started flipping through the pages that she realizes it’s actually written in elvish. She perks up considerably at that; she’s perused enough books on magic this year that she only feels marginally rusty in the translation department. She hums idly under breath as she flips back to the table of contents and drags her fingertip down the page, searching for something that sounds like what she needs. Gold hadn’t given her a page number or a name before retreating into the back of the shop, but Regina is reasonably confident that she can figure at least this much out on her own. She pauses halfway down the page, mouth forming morphemes as she translates from elvish into English. It’s a rough translation and not at all poetic in the way she’d expect it to be, but she thinks this may be what she’s looking for. She slides her finger across the page to locate the page number and barks out a laugh at what she finds.

Page twenty-three.

Of course.

There’s a smile playing at her lips as she turns to the page in question and moves toward the desk with the drawers, eyes scanning the top of the page for ingredients. Her translations are a little slower here -- ingredients are, by nature, words that are far less common, and these seem to be even more obscure than the ones she’s used to working with -- but she sets the book down on top of the desk and takes each item one at a time. She doesn’t quite find everything on the list in the drawers -- there’s one ingredient in particular she’s having trouble translating for some reason -- but she manages to locate the majority of them. Most of the ingredients are in small bottles or jars, encased in glass, and rather than making several trips or try foolishly to carry them all at once, Regina indulges in using a little magic to transport them over to the casetop where she’s set up her work station before following, book in tow.

She fills up the distilling flask first and tries not to take too long; the thick, dark substance inside is the same one she’s used to create sleeping curses before. It’s not as if it surprises her all that much: magic is often linked together in this way, spells and potions and curses alike. She’s nothing to fear from it either, should she botch this entirely and accidentally create another sleeping curse. She can’t be taken under again after all, and she thinks -- _knows_ her child is safe as well. But the sight of it makes her stomach roil a bit, sticky black clinging to the glass walls like molasses. She remembers the way the apples in the Hall of Mirrors had turned rotten, remembers the stain they’d left upon the floor.

She takes a deep breath in; she does not destroy everything she touches.

She has a chance to prove that now, so she uses the breath in her lungs to drive her forward, brow wrinkling in determination. Idly, she tosses a flame beneath the distilling flask with ease, watching for a moment before the black substance inside slowly starts to bubble and churn. Satisfied, she turns her attention back to the book and presses her fingers against the page, reading -- and translating -- slowly. The recipe isn’t particularly complicated, as far as she can tell, but there are more ingredients than she’s used to working with, and the timing, it seems, is going to be a bit tricky, slow and nuanced. But it’s nothing she can’t handle, not as long as she stays focused and keeps her hands steady, careful.

She pushes the sleeves of her sweater back up to her elbows and reaches for the mortar and pestle, eyes flicking briefly to the next instruction in the book. She hums idly to herself, low and in the back of her throat, as her attention narrows and focuses to the perfectly preserved wildflowers she’s crushing to pieces. She thinks she understands the juxtaposition of this -- the ingredients and the way they’re meant to play off of one another. The Netherworld is a place between the living and the dead, and each translated line of instruction she files away as she reads ahead and prepares herself for later is an intricate weaving of the two.

There’s something altogether… jarring about how easy it is to fall back into the ability to do this. It’s not the time away, she thinks; while opportunities to brew potions are few and far between these days, Regina is confident enough in both her knowledge base and her skill set that coming back to this -- coming back to magic -- feels like riding a bike, just like she’d told Belle it would. It’s not even that this particular recipe is unfamiliar to her. It’s just -- _learning_ how to brew something from scratch under Gold’s tutelage is enough to have her feeling uncomfortably young again.

But where she feels a little off-kilter, she also feels… settled, calm and centered. Each memory of a lesson gone wrong, of mistakes made or Rumplestiltskin’s wrath is off-set by memories that go with it, hand in hand. As much as Regina loathes him for the way he’d manipulated her and opened her heart to such darkness, she knows that he alone is not accountable for the choices that she made, the hand she’d had at play. Rumplestiltskin had offered her power, true enough, and Regina had seized it with both hands, but for all that darkness he brought into her life, she cannot -- would not -- deny that there was often light in those lessons, too. Each memory bubbles its way toward the surface, past bleeding into present as she embraces them. Magic had opened up a whole world for her, had engaged her mind and honed her skills, quenching her thirst for knowledge.

Regina had _learned_ , and with today’s particular lesson, she is reminded that there are still opportunities not just for her to move forward, but to pick up new beginnings. She adds the broken and bruised petals of the wildflowers to the liquid in the receiving flask on the other side of the condenser. She waits with baited breath and watches as the reaction burns off green smoke before settling, the liquid turned lilac exactly what she’d been looking for.

For a half a moment, she allows herself to glance over at her purse atop the adjacent counter and thinks of the copy of page twenty-three inside.

There are bright spots around every turn, and maybe, Regina thinks, she has finally stopped missing them.

She smiles.

She doesn’t dwell on it too long, though, knows she needs to keep her concentration, so it’s with a steadying sigh that Regina straightens up a little and sets the mortar aside, gaze falling back to the book.

“I suppose congratulations are in order.”

She starts a little, she can’t help it, but she just manages to keep her composure otherwise and only turns her head to face Gold. He’s lingering in the doorway to the back room, a chest tucked under his arm and one hand gripping tight to the handle of his cane. But he doesn’t so much as make a move toward her, just… _stares_ at her for a long moment. Regina has neither the patience nor comfort for his riddles or scrutiny right now, not when she needs to keep her focus elsewhere, so she merely arches an eyebrow at him and waves a hand in his general direction to prompt him into speaking again. Naturally, of course, he _doesn’t_ , but his gaze shifts before her irritation and rage has a chance to do more than flicker into being. She follows it slowly down, down, and when his gaze finally lands, there’s no mistaking the way it traces the ever-growing swell and curve of her belly.

Oh.

Regina inhales sharply and turns back toward her workstation, fingers fumbling a bit as she searches for the small bottle with the brown liquid. “I suppose,” she says, endeavoring to shrug indifferently as she unstoppers the bottle and adds four drops to the receiving flask. “If that’s what you feel like offering up.”

She doesn’t look over at him again, but she can hear him as he slowly makes his way over to her, cane clacking against the floor. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him set the chest down on top of the other end of the counter; the stool squeaks when he settles onto it again. Her hand hovers near the flame she’d conjured earlier as her heat source, ready to adjust the height as per the instructions in the book, but she halts when he speaks again. “When are you due?”

She narrows her eyes, distracted from her concentration for a moment. He hadn’t known about her pregnancy, it seems, much in the same way he hadn’t known about her magic. The fact that this is news to him sets her back on edge a little, the ghost of youth still lingering under her skin. He’d never been particularly thrilled for her before (it’d taken her _years_ to learn why), had always relished in learning of her miscarriages because he knew it meant she was back on track. The thought of him knowing now is enough to put her on the defensive, protective instinct coiling up quick and tight, and it takes everything in her to not rest a hand over her belly.

A deep breath and she pushes the instinct down, down, down, reminding herself that she’s not bound to him any longer.

She glances sideways at him for a second, disconcerted when she finds that he’s not even looking at her. He’s opened the chest and begun to unearth its contents -- the few remaining ingredients she’ll need, supplies to draw up the contract -- but he seems altogether disinterested in what her answer is. For one wild moment, she wonders if this is his attempt at making _small talk_ , but she dismisses the thought almost as quickly as it had arisen.

Rumplestiltskin is no fool, and Regina will not be either.

But this isn’t -- it doesn’t feel like war anymore, not a battle or game or delicate dance. She’s not naive enough to think there isn’t some greater purpose to the way he’s directing the conversation, but it doesn’t feel as… calculated as before. He’s fishing for something -- what, she has no idea -- but it’s her turn to navigate now, and it is not lost on her that in some capacity, he has given her control of the reins.

She really has no idea what to make of him right now.

With a sigh, she shakes her head a little and redirects her focus on the flame. “Spring,” she answers finally. “Whale thinks if I can manage to make it to mid-April or so, we should be in good shape.” Gold merely _hmm_ s in acknowledgement, but he doesn’t have to speak again for her to know he’s read between the lines to the _what if_ s she’s left unsaid.

The flame obeys her command, shrinks and lowers itself down, and Regina lets the corner of her mouth quirk up into a smile, pleased. It’s not as though this is particularly difficult, but there’s something altogether particularly satisfying about the way her magic works these days. She knows how to use it still -- that was never in question -- but she’d struggled with figuring out what it would take to call it forth again. She’s not sure she’s entirely abandoned the practice of using anger to make magic manifest, but the heart of Rumplestiltskin’s lesson, it seems, is something she could not unlearn even if she tried.

Magic is emotion, and for the first time, Regina’s joy and pride are not causes to take it from her. Deep down, a small part of her is once again exceedingly glad that she’d broken bonds with Gold, and she is both light and dark and every shade of gray in between all at once.

Something in her settles.

For a little while, they both work in silence on their respective projects. Regina alternates between grinding up the rest of the various dry ingredients and adding drops of the liquid ones when the recipe calls for it. She’s careful to keep an eye on her flame, pays attention to texture and reactions and colors alike. She doesn’t resume her earlier humming while she works (there’s a thought there, a brief flash of a whistling tune that leaves her properly horrified at the idea that she could get it stuck in her head), but the sounds Gold’s making have an almost lyrical cadence of their own, calm and comforting. The progression of each sound is steady, regular: a gentle _clink_ in rapid succession; a rhythmic scratching as ink stains words across the page. It’s almost white-noise, buzzing and fading into the background to match the undercurrent of her child’s magic buried deep beneath her skin.

It’s not until she’s forced to pause in her own work -- waiting for the dark substance to come to a proper boil -- that she even so much as glances over in his direction again. She does a double take once she sees what he’s working with, though, and she can’t fight back the way bemusement creeps its way into both her expression and her tone. “That’s a bit old-fashioned, don’t you think?” she drawls. “Parchment and quill?”

“Says the woman brewing a potion in broad daylight in the middle of my shop,” Gold throws back, clearly unfazed.

She allows herself the dry chuckle that bubbles up out of her throat; they’re at the point, she thinks, where he’d be hard-pressed to try using it against her. Still, she lets the issue drop and puts her focus back on the potion where it should be. “Alright,” she sighs, hands on her hips as she glances over the open book again. “I have all of the ingredients for this ordered and prepared except for this last one. I had… a _little_ trouble translating it, but since I don’t need it until the end, I figured you might know what it was and where it’s kept around --”

She’s startled into cutting herself off at the sound of a soft _clink_ next to her, eyes falling to the large glass jar Gold’s set on the counter between them. “Nightroot,” he supplies, still not looking at her as he resumes work on the contract.

Regina arches an eyebrow at him, suspicious even as her fingers reach delicately for the jar. “This isn’t exactly easy to come by,” she muses, dragging the jar carefully toward her side of the counter. “You just… happened to have it on hand?”

The rhythmic scratching of quill against parchment ceases abruptly, the sudden silence stealing breath from her lungs. She can see the way his fingers flex in irritation, can see the way his jaw ticks and jumps at the provocation. His smile is tight when he turns to look at her, but the malice is back in his eyes, full of dangerous delight. “I procured the remnants of this plant from the farmhouse,” he informs her thinly. “I figured Zelena didn’t have much use for it anymore, what with her being dead and all.”

She inhales sharply and hates herself for it, hates that he is _still_ managing to get under her skin like this. His patience is virtually non-existent today and he keeps _needling_ her, trying to get a rise out of her. Even the smallest of tells feels like defeat, but she’s been using them -- or trying, anyway -- to give herself time and space to regroup. She ventures to do the same now and works out her frustration as she twists off the lid of the jar and plucks the Nightroot from within. She slices off a sliver as per the instructions and sets it aside for crushing later.

When she brings her hands away, they’re stained with a faint reddish hue, pale and almost pink by comparison, and though there’s no way for Gold to know it’s a tell on her part, Regina feels very much exposed as she traces her fingers down the column of her throat.

Zelena’s ghost whispers against her skin.

Swallowing hard, Regina reaches for a cloth to wipe off her hands, trying valiantly to keep her emotions in check. She will not cause her child undue harm if she can possibly help it, and she will not let Gold continue to get under skin like this. The Evil Queen burns up and breaks through again, and Regina wears her like a barrier between them. “You made sure of that,” she mutters finally, not even deigning to look over at him.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

It’s her turn to work her jaw in irritation, but still she won’t look over at him. She reaches for the next set of dry ingredients to add to the mix instead, hand once again magically adjusting the flame. “The Netherworld is a place between the living and the dead,” she reminds him, doing her best to keep her voice falsely bright. “You never know who you might run into, under the right circumstances.”

She can _feel_ his eyes on her, curious and calculating as he tries to read between the lines to pick up on her meaning. She adds a few crushed crystals to the receiving flask, chalky powder dusting the mixture like snow, but it’s only when the mixture starts to change again -- a flash of light, a burning orange into blue -- that she hears his own sharp inhale in return.

Gold knows he’s been caught.

She expects -- well, she expects a lot of things, frankly. She expects denial. She expects an excuse. She expects him to be _defensive_ , but in the end, all he offers up is a thoughtful musing of his own. “You know,” he remarks, far too casual to be innocent, “what’s in that jar is the only remaining supply of Nightroot to be found in this realm, as far as I know.” He hesitates for a beat, clearly hedging, before venturing, “I’d be willing to part with it.”

Regina barks out a bitter laugh, the Evil Queen burning her throat dry. “Really?” she drawls. “What would prompt such an act of generosity on your part?”

“You may find yourself needing it,” he offers simply, and there is _nothing_ innocent about it, no matter how hard he tries to sound otherwise. “That’s the whole point of this little lesson, isn’t it? Should something happen to the one you’re making now, you’ll have the ability to reproduce it on your own?”

Regina arches an eyebrow, but she keeps her eyes trained on the work in front of her. “And what would the price be,” she wonders aloud, uncorking a bottle of pink liquid to pour over a trio of newt eyes, “for such a… kindness?”

Gold’s answer is immediate and swift. “That you extend the same… _kindness_ to me,” he grits out, innocence lost from his voice at last, “and not follow the example I set for you this past summer.”

Her finger stings with the phantom pricking of a needle, but she’s managed to mostly regain control over her composure at this point, so she doesn’t flex her fingers, doesn’t alter her breathing or level a look in his direction. Instead, she waits for the trio of newt eyes to begin twitching before she quickly adds them to the now yellowing mixture in the receiving flask. The Evil Queen burns down into the background, quiet and tamed, but in her place, the mayor rises -- a phoenix from ashes and flame.

She knows all too well how to _negotiate_.

“You’ve nothing to fear from me, Gold,” she assures him, stirring the mixture slightly before setting the spoon aside. “I’ve long since grown past the need for vengeance.” She can hear him exhale sharply in relief; it’s quiet and brief, barely there, but she hears it. Her eyes shift sideways a little as she watches his left hand reach out, slow and deliberate as he makes to grab the jar of Nightroot. She makes sure her hand is there _first_ , fingertips brushing lightly against his as she grips the top of the jar tight. Slowly, she shifts it from one hand to the other and sets it at the edge of her side of the counter, out of his reach. “I will keep that, though,” she says. “Like you said, I may end up needing it, and you did practically give it to me, after all.”

The air between them thickens with tension for the space of a moment before dissipating back into a civil, courteous calm. Gold retracts his fingers and pulls his hand away. “Fair enough.”

The instructions dictate that she leave the contents of the flasks alone for now to give them time to percolate into potency, so Regina adjusts the flame one last time before pushing away from the case a bit, rolling her shoulders back to try and alleviate any discomfort on her back. “Why Nightroot?” she asks, glancing over at the jar quizzically. “The rest of the ingredients I could make sense of, given the state of the Netherworld, but this?”

“I trust you remember what it does,” Gold sighs, dipping the quill in ink again.

Regina folds her arms over her chest and watches as he adds the final touches to the contract at the bottom of the page. “It… forces you to face your deepest fears,” she says, shifting her weight from one leg to the other.

He sets the quill down gently and reaches for her previously discarded cloth to wipe the ink stains from his hands. “And like I told Henry,” he replies, glancing over his shoulder at her briefly, “once you control the journey --”

“-- the fear will stop,” she supplies softly, muscles relaxing a little. She feels a small surge of affection for David, in that moment, gives it space to swell and rise and fill in some of the more blistered spaces in her lungs. She’d managed to overcome her fear with his guidance, or at least, had been able to face them on her own. The Red Room works in reverse -- it’s the journey that’s tumultuous -- but she thinks this potion for the pendant will do in the Red Room what David had encouraged her to do in the Hall of Mirrors.

In the Netherworld, Regina cannot face her fear if she cannot see it first.

“Now then,” Gold sighs, shifting a little on the stool, “as we’re waiting for the potion to brew a little more before you can add the final ingredient, perhaps we should make sure we’re both upholding our own ends of the bargain.”

Her lips twist a little as she levels him with a look, but she takes a step forward all the same and reaches for the parchment. It’s not lost on her that he has yet to sign at the bottom, and every coiling instinct pushes her to precaution. “I’m sure you won’t mind if I read over it a little more closely,” she reasons, careful to keep her voice light.

“Of course not,” he grits out. And though Regina isn’t forcing him into this deal, Gold had been right, earlier: he would be a fool not to take it.

She takes her time in perusing the single piece of parchment, eyes flicking over every so often to keep watch over the potion brewing. It lays out the terms of the agreement, conditions and all, and delves into little else. The language he’s used is clear and concise and without many qualifiers, if any at all. He’s even borrowed some of the exact phrasing she’d used earlier. It’s surprisingly… short, which seems odd to her, so it’s with narrowed eyes and every bit of indulgence that Regina reads over it three more times, mouth forming morphemes as she goes over the words again and again, searching for a way out. But it’s… solid, not ostentatious in the least, and Regina can’t help but let out a breath of surprise as she leans back and relaxes a little. “This actually… doesn’t seem to require much revision,” she offers, not wanting to let him off the hook just yet.

His tone is equal parts bemusement and exasperation when he replies. “You sound surprised.”

“I was expecting loopholes,” she admits, casting a brief glance over at the jar of Nightroot.

He chokes out something that almost sounds like a laugh, dry and derisive, but he’s relaxed a little, too, muscles in his face less guarded and tight. “Fair enough,” he allows, “but when the entire reason you’re still breathing is because of a _loophole_ , you tend to look at them a bit differently.”

Back on Zelena, then, and where Regina had been willing to try to move on, Gold, it seems, does not share that particular sentiment. “What do you want from me?” she sighs wearily, resting her elbows against the glass casetop. “Do you want some sort of apology from me for what she did to --”

“I don’t want an _apology_ ,” Gold snaps, practically _spitting_ it at her, and Regina startles, inhaling sharply. “I want _my son back_.”

Any prior thoughts of Gold having been previously unguarded with her are now _gone_ , and in the wake of their absence, Regina finds her hands have gone cold, stiff and tight. Because this -- this is as much about love and vengeance as it is bodies in the ground and hearts turned to ash. And she remembers -- she was there for every concession Gold made in Neverland in order to remain in his son’s good graces and _holding onto someone too hard doesn’t make them love you_ and _I want to redeem myself_ and _I’ve really been trying_. She was _there_ , shovel in hand as they lowered Neal’s body into the ground and _Daniel’s skin glows with the hue of ghost-white death_ and her chest constricts, tighter, _tighter_ \-- 

“You’ll lose it.”

She blinks back into awareness, still a little off-kilter, and she knows her expression must betray her confusion because Gold nods in the direction of her workstation. “Pay attention, dearie,” he murmurs. “Add the Nightroot before you lose your window of opportunity.”

She glances over at where the mixture in the receiving flask is starting to bubble in earnest and drops the parchment quickly, startled and frustrated that she’d let herself get so distracted. She reaches for the Nightroot quickly and crushes it in her hand, dusted remnants sparkling as she carefully deposits them into the flask. Her hand hovers over the opening, waiting, but she barely lingers for more than a few seconds before Gold’s reaching out a hand of his own to gently push hers away. The second she’s out of the way, the mixture catches fire; she’d forgotten, momentarily, what the reaction was meant to do, and it’s not lost on her that what he’s just done is, actually, a kindness. “Thank you,” she murmurs, still a bit on auto-pilot. Again, she wipes her hand off on the cloth, pinkish stain rubbing away, and she settles her gaze back to the flame one last time, using her magic to keep the flame steady for a few moments longer.

Her mind starts to settle, breath coming more evenly, and though she doesn’t trust herself to speak, she finds she doesn’t have to -- not yet. “Do you want to know why this deal is so important to me?” he asks. “Do you want to know why I’ve made very little fuss over the way you’ve orchestrated all of this?”

Regina just barely manages to keep the derision out of her tone. “This is only a little fuss?”

“Don’t test me, dearie,” he warns her, but there’s very little heat or malice in his voice. “I am being practically charitable, all things considered.”

She swallows the truth of that down and decides not to argue. “Why is it important to you?” she prompts, trying to keep them both focused.

“What you are offering me,” he explains, “is the closest I’m going to ever get to not letting someone else control me with that dagger ever again.” A beat, and then, “I’m sure you can understand what it’s like to want to not live your life under someone else’s thumb.”

_That_ shocks her back into her skin all the way, and she feels the phantom pain of the magical cords around her wrist all the way down to her bones. Her hand begins to tremble, just a little, where it hovers next to the flame, but he is being _frighteningly_ honest with her at the moment; she thinks perhaps she owes him some of the same. “You know I do.”

At long last, the liquid in the receiving flask finally turns bright red, and Regina is quick to extinguish the flame. She’s almost certain that she’s done this correctly; ordinarily, Gold would call out her mistakes (or let her suffer them, if he was feeling particularly cruel at the time), but he’d been in the back for the first half of this, so she feels her _almost_ is justified until she sees the final result. The tremors have eased out of her hands for now as she reaches for a vial and maneuvers it under the receiving flask, and when she twists the small knob at the bottom, the liquid that pours into the vial is crystal clear.

Regina smiles.

Gold clears his throat, recapturing her attention, and she glances over to see him holding out a pendant in offering. It’s a little different than the one he’d given to Henry; this one is long and thin instead but no less ornately cased. He says nothing for a moment, which tells her she’s brewed the potion properly, and her smile doesn’t falter as she straightens up and turns to face him.

When she reaches for a dropper to transfer the potion, though, he resumes his earlier explanation, and her smile dims a little around the edges. “Resurrection was out of my hands,” he reminds her, and as she suctions the potion into the dropper, it occurs to her rather suddenly that maybe... he needs this. This… whatever this is -- it’s clearly something Gold has been carrying around for a while. Getting it off of his chest, regardless of _why_ he’s suddenly decided to be so frank with her, has already caused some of his anger to temper off. She can only imagine where things might go if she just keeps _listening_.

(For one wild moment, she thinks about sessions with Archie -- of Henry and Robin and _I think we’ve made good progress today_ , and the thought of Gold following suit doesn’t paint as odd of a picture as she’d thought it might.)

He holds the pendant steady for her as she transfers the potion into the vial of the pendant, but he does not look her in the eyes. “If it had been,” he continues, more of the edge gone from his voice, “if I’d been given the choice, I wouldn’t have come back. The cost was… too high.” She studies his face for his moment, hand hovering over the pendant still, and for what she thinks is the first time in a very long time (the first of very few, still), Regina thinks that maybe she understood parts of Neal better than she thought she did.

_You are so reckless with yourself. You never stop to think._

In its wake, death leaves so much destruction behind; Regina understands that almost better than anyone.

And perhaps, she thinks, there are still parts of her that aren’t all that different from Gold.

His hand replaces hers once she moves it away, twisting the top back onto the pendant’s vial. He catches her eye as she sets the dropper down on the counter, just for a moment, but her irises must betray her thoughts because he looks away again rather quickly, gesturing for her to turn around. And inexplicably, she doesn’t question him or so much as hesitate before she complies. “You know,” he muses, barely above a murmur, “I did try to do the right thing -- or I suppose what most people would consider the right thing.” She _hmm_ s to prompt him into continuing, starting only a little when his fingertips brush against the back of her neck, his skin cool to touch. He doesn’t linger, though, merely sweeps her hair away from the nape of her neck. She gathers her hair together, fingers running through invisible tangles as he reaches around to put the necklace on. “I tried to die a hero,” he confesses, and with a weight against her chest, Regina remembers diamonds in the mines.

_Let me die as Regina._

He’s slower in fastening the clasp at the back, fingers not quite so nimble, and still Regina breathes, steady and slow and even. “Fate seemed to have other plans for me,” he says, and there’s no mistaking the sheer _bitterness_ in his tone. “After your last visit, I couldn’t help but wonder if you’d been onto something with that book -- about how people… like us might be written into corners.”

The ghost of a laugh escapes her lips as his hands leave her and she lets her hair back down. She’s given very little thought to the Author since the spring. Most of her focus had gone to defeating a dragon, and it had been Gold’s hand at play, funnily enough, that had set her on the path to owning her accountability; her encounters in the Netherworld have been more than enough proof of that. A smile quirks its way onto her lips as she turns around to face him again, eyes narrowed in discernment. “And what was your conclusion?”

She sees more than hears his swallow, watches the way his Adam’s apple bobs up and down in his throat, and though she wouldn’t exactly place a large bet on it, she thinks she _may_ see traces of regret in his eyes. It’s the echoed mark of a moment earlier, when he’d clearly been upset with himself for letting her see too much, but where his words were harsh and biting earlier, they retain their careful calm now. “That perhaps you were right to abandon that pursuit,” he offers, clearly choosing his words carefully.

Regina blinks, eyes softening a little, but her smile doesn’t fade. “Really?” she chuckles, shifting her attention back to her workstation. “What made you think that?” He doesn’t answer her for a moment, just sits and watches as she waves a hand over the equipment to clean it. She decides against dismantling and storing it all with magic; the busywork, she thinks, might give him the extra time he clearly needs to finish getting this off his chest.

And she really can’t explain _why_ she’s suddenly so inclined to be… charitable toward him, all things considered. The instinct annoys her, really, if only because she can’t quite figure it out. It wouldn’t be unreasonable for her to still be on her guard, particularly given how poorly this visit had started and the underhanded way he’d tried to manipulate her with the Nightroot a little while ago. It’s not unfathomable to think that she’s still trying to suss him out, now that their bond is broken. It’s even plausible to believe that she’s gone so far as to encourage him to keep talking because so _little_ of what he’s said to her over the years has ever been as much of an absolute truth as this -- as these seem to be.

(There’s a whisper, in the back of her mind -- _let me guide you_ \-- that ripples into mirrored glass, the glittering face of a crocodile looking back.)

It’s only when she’s dismantling the equipment by hand that Gold finally offers up a reply. “Well,” he says, more quiet than he’s been the whole visit, “perhaps my… actions this year have not done very much to honor my son’s memory.”

She halts in her movements for a moment, glass held carefully in her hands as she glances over at him in disbelief. But before she can so much as utter any sort of quip of incredulity (she thinks of hallucinations, first, and quickly sets it aside), Gold holds up a hand in silent request. “No need to rub it in, dearie,” he drawls, sounding much more like himself as he reaches for the part in her hands and begins to put the equipment back in the chest. Regina doesn’t bother trying to mask any expression of amazement on her part. She’s not sure if she’s delighting in the fact that he’s admitting she was right or that he’s actually willing to be held accountable for his actions -- both, probably -- but she bites her tongue all the same, more curious now than anything to see where he’s going with this.

Still, the admission seems to have taken more out of him than maybe he’d thought it would, and again Gold falls quiet, focusing instead on storing the pieces of the potion set back in the chest. He handles each piece with care, and though it doesn’t surprise her, she finds herself glad to see it, given the dusty state of things earlier. He’s still in there, somewhere, buried beneath snark and resentment and injury; he just needs to be drawn all the way to the surface.

(Under her skin sleeps a quiet queen, and the mirror in her mind flickers and fades in and out of view.)

Regina turns her attention to the remaining ingredients instead, waiting him out. Once again, she uses magic to transport the various little bottles and jars back to the desk with drawers, but she lingers a little longer on the book, contemplating. It’s not part of their agreement, the book, not even the recipe, but she wonders if pushing her luck here might be okay. “The recipe,” she says slowly, fingers dragging delicately down the page, “would you… mind terribly if I made a copy of that?” He pauses in his movements as he glances over at her, flask in hand, and the smile that spreads onto his lips could almost be called affectionate.

Almost.

“On the house,” he agrees, and though there’s warmth to his voice, there is warning there, too.

He doesn’t want to be taken advantage of, either.

Magic serves her well here too as she makes a copy of the recipe, and it’s with paper and book and jar of Nightroot in her hands that she makes her way over to where she’s set her purse and coat down. She plucks the extra scarf from her purse first and wraps it carefully around the jar containing the Nightroot before gently settling it into her purse. The recipe she folds in quarters and tucks away in the small side pocket inside of her purse, forming a set of twenty-three. With her prizes safe (and they are prizes, really, victories she achieved without waging war), she turns her attention back to the open shelving along the wall.

The book is halfway back onto its designated spot on the shelf when Gold finally speaks again. “I spent centuries trying to find my way back to him,” he murmurs. She glances over her shoulder at him, caught off guard by the gravity in his voice, and for all that the chest at his fingertips is locked up again, some of his secrets, it seems, are ready to be laid bare. “It’s not an excuse,” he dismisses, waving a hand idly as she finishes shelving the book and turns back around. “So much of that darkness wasn’t about him at all, but... there is nothing I would not do for him -- even now, if I could.” He’s quiet for a long moment, eyes closed as he grips the edge of the chest tight.

When he turns his gaze back on her, the same sparks of approval she thought she’d seen earlier are back in his eyes; this time, she thinks, it looks a little more genuine. “I can see that, in you. It’s not new, really, but it’s… different.”

And Gold doesn’t have to say it for Regina to hear the word he leaves unspoken loud and clear: _lighter_.

In a strange way, she thinks she’s honestly a little… touched. “Is that why you agreed to this?” she asks, fingers tracing over the curve of her belly. “Because you realized I wasn’t just trying to protect myself in all of this?”

He chortles a little, pushing the chest aside, but he doesn’t move to get up. “I agreed to this deal before I knew about your… condition,” he settles on. “Let’s just say that given our history, perhaps I felt as though I owed you this one.” Regina arches an eyebrow at him, not bothering to conceal her own bemusement, but she doesn’t feel as compelled to linger on it this time. His gaze falls back down to the parchment still resting atop the case, and the little light left in his eyes dims. “I have very little opportunity to make my own choices these days,” he murmurs. “If making this deal is the only way to honor Bae’s memory -- to ensure that I won’t let myself end up in a position like the one that cost him his life -- then it’s one I’m more than willing to make.”

Regina takes a moment to think as she shrugs back into her coat, the weight in her chest heavier than before. She remembers the way her heart had pulled and stretched and shattered, remembers sinking to her knees at the risk of love lost. It had been Henry she’d gone after, in the end, Henry she’d protected Emma for and Henry for whom she’d sunk into eternal slumber. Now, Gold’s ache echoes its way into every blistered and bleeding corner of her lungs, her breath coming in the same rise and fall of her ascent and ruin in Maleficent’s mansion. It _should_ leave her feeling unsettled; but… it doesn’t, not really, and she thinks that maybe it’s because this -- the fact that she _understands_ \-- is more familiar to her than she’d ever thought it could be.

For all that Regina may have broken their bond, she and Gold still share many of the same pieces.

She feels a strange urge to try and _comfort_ him -- that alone is enough to shiver her back into her skin -- but she resists the temptation. Platitudes are not her strong suit, and she’s fairly sure that Gold wouldn’t welcome them, anyway. So she takes a breath -- one, maybe two -- to pull herself together and reaches for her purse, hooking it back up over her shoulder. This time she’s the one who withholds her words until she’s ready, and she crosses the room back over to where he’s still perched upon his stool. Slowly, she reaches past him for the quill he’d abandoned earlier, dipping the tip into the well of ink. “Like I said,” she muses, adjusting the parchment slightly under his hand so she has better access to it, “vengeance doesn’t suit me very much anymore.”

With a steady hand, Regina signs her name along the bottom.

Gold exhales, slow and in obvious relief, and follows suit.

“Is there anything else you were looking for?” he asks as he sets the parchment and quill aside, and there’s something light, almost teasing in his tone. “I am running a business here, after all.”

Her lips twist into a smile. “No,” she says, shaking her head. “No, I think -- I think I have everything I need.” He inclines his head in acknowledgement, but there’s something all too knowing in his eyes; he’s read between the lines there, too. “Thank you,” she adds, almost as an afterthought. “I know it sounds… trite, but I do appreciate that you were willing to make this deal with me. I appreciate the help.”

“Door’s always open,” he offers, “and even when it’s not, I’m sure you won’t have any trouble letting yourself in like the rest of the Charmings.” Regina arches an eyebrow at the label, but she doesn’t take it as an insult; she doesn’t think he means it as one, either.

The Charmings are, after all, her family.

So she merely takes it in stride and inclines her head in silent goodbye; there is little, she thinks, that she could say that would make her parting any less awkward than it already is. She makes her way out from behind the back row of display cases and makes for the front door, tucking her hair behind her ear. Her left hand is hovering just over the doorknob when she catches her reflection in the glass of the door’s display window, her face half shadowed by light.

Beyond and behind, Gold’s reflection hovers over her shoulder, and for a moment, Regina finds she cannot breathe.

Instinctively, she pulls her hand away from the doorknob, fingers curling into a fist for a moment. Every breath that comes now is short and shaking, magic coiling at her core. It’s not the same -- not the tight, twisting trigger of defense in response to overwhelming emotion -- but it’s definitely not her own. There is something startlingly _new_ about the way her child’s magic reaches up and branches out, light spreading like wildfire to meet magic of her own. And where her child’s magic meets that lingering sense of _understanding_ she’d felt with Gold earlier, Regina feels the way her child’s magic sinks back down, rooting her to the spot.

This is… _empathy_.

She anchors a hand over her belly and exhales slowly, breath coming easier now as she centers and calms. _Be mindful of your emotions_ , Blue had told her, and every instinct Regina has is clearly telling her to _stay_. It takes her a moment to parse out why: she’s gotten what she wanted, what she came for; there shouldn’t be any reason for her to stay. But it’s here, standing at the door and able to leave unscathed, that she realizes just how differently this entire encounter has been from what she’d expected -- from where it began.

Regina had come here looking for Gold’s help and guidance, and in the end, she is faced with the choice of whether or not to keep moving forward knowing that he is lost.

Perhaps this is now an opportunity of a different kind, and she can provide help and guidance for him in return.

And oh, how the tables have turned.

The pull of empathy is too strong now for any sense of twisted delight to develop in her, and even without a bond, Regina finds herself drawn to him. Slowly, she turns back around, moving a hand up to grip the handles of her purse again, fingers flexing a little anxiously in attempt to anchor her. “Forget something?” Gold asks, still perched upon his stool.

Regina shakes her head, warmth creeping into her smile. She’s still not one for platitudes (Snow would be insufferable if that were to ever change), but she can do this, at least. She can be light where it’s dark. “Remembered, actually,” she admits, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. “I was just… thinking about my last visit,” she says, rushing to continue so he doesn’t get the wrong impression. “About that conversation we had about the book -- about villains and happy endings.”

Gold raises an eyebrow at her. “If I recall, you hadn’t quite riddled out that puzzle, dearie.”

“I know,” she answers, a touch too quickly, “but I don’t think I abandoned the pursuit, like you said earlier, so much as I found something different than what I was looking for. I think… I was looking for a solution to a problem I wasn’t even sure existed. And that’s… not what happy endings are.”

(For a moment, she thinks of Snow -- of _happy endings aren’t always what we think they will be_ and a host of hearts breaking at the center of town -- and Regina remembers that while pain has fractured her into pieces, she is still standing on the other side of it.

She has the heart of the most resilient, after all.)

“And you think you’ve figured out what they are, then?” he counters, derision back in his tone again, “with that _charming_ little family of yours?”

She suppresses a sound somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle, wondering if Snow finds her this _irritating_ when she’s being particularly obstinate and defensive. “I think I’m beginning to,” she admits, pressing forward anyway. “I think happy endings are more… what we _want_ our lives to be like. But it’s not like our lives just… stop when we reach that point or even when we start to get close. Our stories don’t just end.”

Gold rests his arms across the top of the case again, hands pressed together as he considers her carefully for a moment, clearly curious. “And what happens then, when you finally get what you want?”

Regina reaches up, fingers brushing against the pendant she’s just procured, and sadness softens her smile a little. “You live,” she says simply, and breath comes more easily to her now than it has in weeks, maybe even months. “And there’s no sense in having a happy ending if we’re not _living_ them.”

There is something almost downright melancholic about the way he smiles at her, and ache is a thread between them, empathy zinging along the line. “And what use is that,” he murmurs, “if you’re doing it alone?”

Regina closes her eyes for a moment, the weight of that landing with her harder than perhaps it should. It’s the first time he’s so much as _alluded_ to Belle since she walked through the front door, but there’s nothing she can do for him there. Gold had made his bed with her, and Regina doesn’t begrudge Belle the divorce or distrust that had followed. Belle, too, is working out what her own happy ending looks like right now, and Regina can more than understand why she feels the need to do it apart from Gold.

But there’s more to this than Belle, more that Regina can still work with, so she takes a breath and opens her eyes, endeavoring again to keep moving forward. “You wanted to honor his memory,” she reminds him, not unkindly. “Maybe figuring out how to live your life without him is the place to start.” His smile goes tight around the edges, his expression shifting as he breaks eye contact, and she _knows_ what’s behind it, has worn it a thousand times herself. He thinks she doesn’t get it, that she couldn’t possibly understand, and in his melancholy, his self-pity has blinded him.

Maybe he needs someone fighting for him again, too.

“And,” she ventures after half a moment, watching him pause after pulling his arms away from the casetop again, “maybe… you’re not alone. Not entirely.” He’s slow in meeting her eyes again, but there’s something new in his irises that forces a breath to stutter out of her, startled and unbidden.

(If she had to give a name, she thinks that Gold may be the one to owe Snow the quarter this time around.)

It gives Regina fuel for her fire. “Look at me,” she chuckles dryly, holding her arms out on display for a second before letting them come to rest. “I have been a villain a... _thousand_ times over,” she sighs, fingers curling around the handle of her purse again, “and yet my life is slowly being filled with things I’ve always desired.” She takes a beat to breathe and swallows her pride down, only just managing to keep meeting his eyes. “As unbelievable as it sounds, I want the same for you.”

His smile does soften a bit at that, but there’s no mistaking the resignation in his eyes. He turns away from her for a moment, leaving her fidgeting with the strap of her purse as he reaches for the handle of his cane again. He slides off of the stool with a slight groan, wincing a little as he tries to find his balance after sitting for a while. Thankfully, he doesn’t try to push himself too hard like he did when he was irritated and angry with her earlier. He takes his time as he moves out from behind the back row of cases and makes his way toward her. “That is… rather touching, dearie,” he grits out, finally coming to a halt next to her in front of the door. “But you and I being cut from the same cloth is a thing that has long since passed.” And where the degree of separation had filled her with pride earlier, it leave Regina feeling hollow now.

It must show on her face because Gold reaches out a hand precariously, careful to keep his balance as he gently grips her hand. “We may yet be on the same path, Regina, but I am much, much farther behind.” And her words fail her, in that moment; she has _nothing_ for him -- no quips or platitudes, no questions or concerns. But he doesn’t seem to mind -- he may even have expected it, if the look in his eyes is any indication -- and merely squeezes her hand in kind before letting go. He shifts a little, still managing to hold his footing even as he reaches for the doorknob in her stead. And once again empathy _lances_ through her, shoots up and leaves her swaying a little as it coils up at her core again --

_Oh_.

She gasps sharply and reaches for his wrist without thought, halting his movement and gripping his wrist tight. She barely registers the half-annoyed _tsk_ he lets out in response, barely hears him talk at all. “Regina, what --”

“Just… wait,” she breathes, eyes unfocused as she concentrates. She’s not… sure if that’s what she thought it was, exactly. Her child’s magic has been manifesting for well over a month at this point, and Regina has since begun to learn how to differentiate between the way it feels when compared to her own. She can still feel the remnants of the baby’s magic racing through her like wildfire, fraying and sparking at the edges, but there may have been something else there, beneath it, that took root all on its own -- something separate. But she doesn’t know -- she can’t be sure -- so she clears her mind and tries to take measured breaths, her fingers still wrapped around Gold’s wrist.

And after a moment, her patience is rewarded: something shifts inside of her, she’s almost positive, pressing with a soft, gentle pressure, and the breath she releases burns hope into the air. “Here,” she urges, pulling at Gold’s wrist to rest his hand over the lower curve of her belly. “Just -- there, can you feel anything?” She only glances up at him for a brief moment, but she can see the startled discomfort on his face, notices the way he looks at where she’s placed his hand instead of meeting her eyes. It’s all the attention she care spare for him, her world narrowing once more in anticipation of --

“There,” she gasps, the shifting pressure a tiny bit stronger this time. She blinks back up at him almost immediately in earnest, lip worried between her teeth. “Could you feel that at all?”

The moment it takes for Gold to shift his gaze back up to hers feels longer than it probably actually is, but that gentle little spark is back in his eyes, and Regina’s lungs _burn_. “Yes,” he answers quietly. “Yes, I can.” She exhales heavily at the confirmation, grateful for the validation. The next sensation comes much more quickly, prompting a startled laugh out of her as wetness wells and stings at her eyes, blurring her vision a little.

Her baby is _moving_.

“I gather that’s new,” Gold murmurs, hand still resting over the swell of her belly. Her smile breaks down into something a little less bright and she swallows thickly, nodding. She doesn’t have to speak, doesn’t have to explain for him to know what this means for her. He was there in the aftermath of every miscarriage, scowling and disapproving and impatient, but The Dark One is nowhere to be found, now. In his stead, Regina finds Rumplestiltskin staring back at her, gentle and kind, and the empathy that had ripped its way through her only moments ago makes its way into his eyes now.

Her left hand sparks abruptly with her child’s magic, startling a gasp out of her and a sharp inhale of pain from him. She relaxes her grip on his wrist, releasing him carefully as he pulls his hand away from her belly to make sure she hasn’t thrown him off balance. “Are you okay?”

“I’m… fine,” he grits out, but there’s no edge behind his words. He flexes his fingers a bit, rolls his wrist around to check his movement, and for a moment she thinks of Robin, of the way he’d done nearly the same thing after she’d healed his arm. She inhales sharp and shallow at the sight of his hand trembling slightly, but when she looks up to his face again, the spark in his eyes has shifted into something altogether more curious. “It’s alright,” he assures her, body relaxing. “I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry,” she says automatically, adjusting the straps of her purse on her shoulder. “That’s not -- that’s the baby’s magic, not mine. I don’t exactly have control over it. I can temper it, a little, if I’m careful, but --”

“Really?” he muses, eyes flicking over to meet hers briefly before he returns to examining his hand. “That's… interesting.”

“Interesting,” she echoes, her tone making it clear that she's expecting him to elaborate. He doesn't answer her though, just continues to examine his hand, and for one wild moment she thinks of Blue -- of magic unbidden and a welt across her palm. But Gold doesn't seem to show any signs of real injury, and it's yet another thing about her child’s magic that she doesn't quite understand.

When Gold does meet her eyes again, the curious little spark is still burning bright in his irises. “It’s exceedingly rare for a person’s magic to manifest while they're still in the womb,” he explains. “Not unheard of, but it's still uncommon. Not even the Savior managed that.”

Regina has known the truth of it for years, of course, but has never paid it particular attention. She’s never really needed to until now, and her focus has, admittedly, been concentrated more on trying to live with it than fully understand it. The most she’s done in terms of exploration has been to take a cue from Blue and pay attention to how her emotions factor into the ways in which her child’s magic manifests. “I'm well aware,” she says dryly. “Your point?”

A smile plays at Gold’s lips, not quite there, and the spark in his eyes shifts into something altogether more… not sinister, not dark, but knowing. “For it to manifest, it must be exceedingly strong.”

The air in the room shifts around them at that -- she can _feel_ it, a cold, sharp turn at the edges of her magic -- but Regina finds that her curiosity is beginning to match his own. “How strong?” she prompts carefully, arching an eyebrow.

Gold merely shrugs a little and flexes his fingers one more time. “Well,” he sighs, turning to face the back of the shop again, “let’s find out, shall we?” And before Regina can so much as begin to think about what that might mean -- much less react or ask questions -- Gold is depositing his cane into her hand and taking a few steps forward.

She finds herself unable to breathe, her chest feeling tight as she turns on the spot to watch. She can’t quite help the way her mouth hangs a little agape at the sight of him _walking_ \-- unassisted, without the limp he’d sported not two minutes ago. But he’s slow about it, clearly experimenting to make sure he won’t stumble or fall, and the care with which he reaches out a hand to grip the edge of the case along the back wall doesn’t escape her notice. Slowly, he turns back around to face her, and the look in his eyes is not hope but _triumph_. He holds out a hand, and the cane disappears from her own, reappearing in his grip with a cloud of smoke.

Regina’s heart thuds painfully in her chest, breath stuttering out of her at last. “Your magic’s returned,” she murmurs, soft and low.

Gold’s lips twist into a smile. “So it would seem.”

She can’t even _begin_ to fathom what this might mean -- for Gold, for herself, for her child, _god_ \-- but Regina can feel the air in the room shift again, careful and calculating. She can still feel the ghost of the way the wood of his cane had felt in her hand, a rough grain against her palm. Its absence lingers under her skin, lancing through her until it pierces the place her anxiety resides, coiled up at the core. It begins to flare like fire, branching up and out and to the edges, and the Queen of Nothing meets the Mother in the mirror.

Regina’s eyes fall to where the parchment rests perched atop the case. “And… our deal?”

His smile falters at that, eyes narrowing as he follows her gaze around to the contract, but his features have softened when he turns back around. It’s not… empathy in his eyes, not quite, but it’s something close, she thinks -- sympathy, maybe. “Rest assured, dearie,” he says evenly, bringing the cane back down to rest on the floor as he folds his hands over the handle, “you’ve nothing to fear from me.”

She rests a hand against her middle, she can’t help it, but she steers into the skid and hopes that the effort toward being honest will help curb her anxiety a little. “Considering the circumstances,” she muses, casually bringing up her other hand to toy with the chain of the pendant’s necklace, “I’m sure you understand why I might have some doubts.”

Gold chuckles -- quiet and barely there, but he does -- and sets his cane down on top of the case before slowly crossing the room in her direction again. He slows to a stop in front of her and reaches out a hand; where exactly he’d intended to touch her, she’ll never know, because her left hand sparks with her child’s magic before he can even make contact. Regina’s not sure which of them is protecting the other, this time around, but it hardly matters. Gold takes it for what it is -- a warning -- and withdraws his hand, retreating.

“Same path, much farther behind,” he reminds her, sounding every bit the exasperated mentor she can’t help but still see him as. But here, it seems, is the patience he’d lacked with her earlier, and while a part of her does admittedly feel uncomfortably young with the way he’s looking at her, she feels as much woman as she does girl -- an amalgamation existing in the in-between. “If there’s any possibility of my making a change, Regina, it might suit you to stick to yours. Loathe as I am to admit it, optimism doesn’t look all that terrible on you.”

And Gold doesn’t have to say it for Regina to hear the meaning loud and clear: _have a little faith in me_.

_You deserve forgiveness_ , Snow had said. _A chance at grace._

Somewhere in the awkward in-between, the burning branches of Regina’s magic meet the fraying edges of her child’s, instincts clashing. Her own resistance still lingers -- _and yet_ \-- but it’s muted, quelled by the sharp lance of empathy from her child that makes the anxiety inside of her fall quiet. Still, she hedges, hesitant and unsure, and she pulls her own instincts forward. “I don’t trust you,” she says, but the rest of her words -- the _not entirely_ \-- are taken from her as her child’s magic sparks up again, causing her to gasp sharply in surprise.

And still, _inexplicably_ , Gold somehow remains patient with her -- an almost acquiescence. “I think we’ve both earned a little skepticism,” he allows, “but considering the circumstances,” he adds, gesturing down to his leg, “it wouldn’t do for me to be… ungrateful.” Regina arches an eyebrow -- they both know full well he’s talking about a whole lot more than just his _leg_ \-- but she continues to meet his gaze steadily, refusing to look away. Regina is no fool, either: she knows better than to let her guard down fully around him, will not let him manipulate her back under his shadow and into his bond and --

Another spark, this one having her _tsk_ in both annoyance and a little pain, and Regina curls her fingers into a fist and closes her eyes, trying to breathe evenly. Her child’s instincts are _fighting_ against her own, clearly telling her to back off a little ( _stop seeing him as your enemy_ ), but Regina doesn’t have so much of chance to even try to lean into that and peel back the layers before she’s startled into opening her eyes by Gold touching her hand. She holds her breath as he gently grips her hand in his own, thumb rubbing soothingly along her knuckles. “If you’d like help figuring that out,” he murmurs, flicking his gaze back up to hers, “my door is still open.”

Her hand doesn’t spark with magic again, but in its place, it seems, her child finds another form of protest, moving a bit inside of her. The sensation still startles the air from her lungs, but she gives it space to breathe before leaning back into her own instincts.

_It’s my job to protect you right now, little one._

Slowly, Regina’s withdraws her hand from Gold’s grasp. “Thank you,” she says carefully, “but I don’t want to imagine what the price for something like that might be.”

Gold’s answering smile is all too knowing for her liking, but it’s nowhere near the same as it was earlier, when it had been full of malice and dangerous delight. It’s softer around the edges now, reminiscent of the warmth she’d seen when he’d embodied more of Rumplestiltskin than the Dark One. “Consider it me returning the favor,” he says, and again he gestures to his leg, but his meaning is plain enough.

Another shift inside of her instead of a spark and empathy lances its way through her body again, but where it had rooted her to the spot before, it feels oddly… freeing now -- like she’s being granted permission to leave. She’s far too rattled from her time here this morning to really try and figure it out, but she’s… curious, to say the least, what might happen if she leans into her child’s instincts this time instead of her own. “I’ll… keep that in mind,” she says, relenting just a little.

The baby’s magic settles.

Rumple inclines his head slightly in acknowledgement. “I’ll… be seeing you then?”

Regina reaches up a hand to grasp the handle of her purse again, seeking an anchor to keep her steady even as she’s set adrift. Making that kind of a promise is… dangerous, even if it they might be considered empty words, and she’s nowhere near equipped enough to commit to something like this. Returning to Rumplestiltskin -- even without a bond -- isn’t something Regina had done lightly today; doing it again, even on her child’s behalf, will take more careful consideration.

Another day, another plan, perhaps. For now, she’s more than ready to leave, emotionally spent before her day has even really begun. “Maybe.”

She’s at the door, hand hovering over the handle again when he speaks once more. “Regina?” She doesn’t start though it’s a near thing. She hesitates for half a moment before she reaches out to grip the door handle anyway, anchoring herself there even as she half-turns to face him. He’s moved back behind the far line of cases along the back wall, and Regina arches an eyebrow expectantly, grateful for the added distance between them. “Would you be willing to do me a favor?”

“Another?”

Gold takes it in stride. “It’s separate from all of this, for the most part,” he dismisses.

The qualifier doesn’t escape her notice. “What do you want?”

“I’d like you to pass along a message,” he says, “to my grandson.” Regina inhales sharply at that and grips the door handle a little tighter, unwilling to entertain any discussion of Henry after the stunts Gold pulled in both the summer and the spring. But she can feel magic threatening to spark under her skin as a gentle reminder that she _understands_ \-- this is about Neal, this _has_ to be about Neal -- and she forces herself to take a measured breath.

Henry is the exception to every rule -- always -- in both her world and in Gold’s.

Maybe she can make an exception for him -- just this once.

Still, while that sense of empathy lingers in her veins, the usual coiling instinct she’s come to associate with her child’s magic hasn’t fully gone away, and once again she recognizes the fierce need to protect as her own, instead.

Regina is a mother, first.

“And what would that be?” she prompts.

It’s Gold’s turn to hesitate now, clearly apprehensive and considering his request carefully. “Please let Henry know that his… position here is still available, should he choose to return to it.”

She levels him with a look. “You know he took that position for me, right?”

“I figured as much, yes,” he chuckles lightly, “though I couldn’t really fathom why until you mentioned the Author on your last visit. Still, if Henry should like to revisit it for _him_ , my door is always open.”

Regina takes a moment to survey him carefully, contemplating. This -- Henry -- is their uncomfortably common ground when all else fails. Blood has always been thicker than water to Rumplestiltskin; she’d known that, had used it to ensure his downfall on her last visit. But given the way he’s talked about his own son during this visit and her own pangs of empathy -- of _understanding_ \-- Regina’s inclined to at the very least give him the benefit of the doubt where his sincerity is concerned.

If they are on the same path, perhaps this is where she’s meant to help pick him up where he fell behind. If she’s meant to help him, maybe she doesn’t have to do it alone, either.

Henry, she thinks, would believe him -- would believe _in_ him and grant Gold’s earlier request of having a little faith ( _of giving him a second chance_ , the back of her mind supplies, and there’s a part of her voice that sounds suspiciously like Robin). And heart of the truest believer or not, Regina thinks she would trust Henry’s instincts far beyond her own.

It’s almost enough to get her to agree.

Almost.

As much as Regina wants to let this be Henry’s choice, it can’t be -- not now, not yet. She is his _mother_ , meant to look after him and act in his best interests to keep him safe at times, but in this Regina knows she is not alone. “I’ll pass along the message,” she says finally, “to Emma. We’ll see where it goes from there.”

Gold’s answering smile is tight around the edges, but the resignation in his eyes tells her he won’t put up a fight. “Fair enough.” They’re both quiet for a moment, eyes meeting across the room, before Regina nods her head in silent parting, Gold inclining his own in kind.

She cannot get out the door fast enough.

Once it clicks shut behind her, she keeps her hold on the handle as an anchor and leans back against the door heavily with a quiet _thunk_. It’s not lost on her at all that she’s managed to escape -- to _leave_ on her terms, unscathed and whole. But the sense of victory in her veins is different than what she’d thought it be. She hasn’t come out on the other side of this as a winner in a war, because at the end of the day, that’s not what this was. She’d been uncertain of it at times, on the other side of that door, but she’s sure of it now that the smoke has cleared.

She cannot face what she cannot see, and in facing her fear and pushing aside her pride, Regina has managed to clear the path for them both.

She can see him clearer now than ever before, but for the first time, she thinks she’ll find him absent when she looks in the mirror.

Her life is still hers and hers alone.

The baby moves again, prompting a smile and a startled laugh from her. She indulges herself and moves her free hand to rest over her belly, reveling in the sensation as it roots her to the ground for a moment. She needs her own time and space to really _appreciate_ this, needs to bring herself back into balance and calm. She needs -- she _wants_ to call Robin, have him meet her at her office; she needs to head to work anyway, and Robin knows, he’ll understand why this is so important to her. And this?

This is part of the life she has taken back, and she is grateful to have it filled with moments like these.

Something in her soul settles.

Magic sparks out of her hand -- briefly, just once -- but it reverberates off of the door handle and bounces back, zinging against her hand. She hisses sharply at the pain, shaking the sting out of her hand, but the thrum of electricity lingers in the air like a magnet drawing her near. Slowly, her eyes shift from her hand to the door, and for a moment, she feels tethered here.

To him.

But the feeling is gone almost as soon as it appeared, and without Gold’s gaze at her back, Regina finds that guilt is no longer a tie that binds.

Freedom earned, it seems, has no additional cost.

But the ghost of the tether still lingers -- a faint itching from wrist to palm to fingers -- and her hand gravitates toward the handle again, fingertips brushing against the surface. She thinks she understands now, what her child’s magic -- her child’s instincts -- had been trying to do. A bond exists between them to be sure -- Regina’s informed and intuitive enough to believe _that_ \-- but her child, she thinks, had been trying to use it to communicate.

If Regina returns, it will be entirely her choice.

The baby shifts under her hand again, and Regina feels safe enough to let go. Slowly, she pushes herself away from the door, and with a smile, she adjusts the straps of her purse on her shoulder and takes a step forward.

And in the dead of autumn, Regina rises from ash.

* * * * *


End file.
